So I've been rather uninvolved writing here since summer. But I'll try to get back to it in the new year.
Merry Christmas to anyone who still reads this.
Go watch Hitchcock's Marnie.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
It's Love It's Not Santa Claus: My Doctrine
PLACEHOLDER FOR A MORE EXPANDED AND FLSHED OUT DESCRIPTION OF MYSELF THROUGH THE EFFECTS OF THOSE AROUND AND INFLUENCING ME AND MY LIFE
I am not original; I am a construct, and a direct descendant of every person or media I have been exposed to
- I feared Dracula, He was the first thing I was ever afraid of, that and fire. I slept with garlic cloves, crosses and closed
doors. Somehow I`m still that scared little girl, even though nothing scares me now but surprises , like toast popping up and people jumping out from behind bushes.
- I fear burning and hot showers from R.L. Stein cheerleaders
- I want a higher purpose/ quest from fantasy epics like Ella enchanted, the hobbit and last unicorn and woz
- I am drawn to grim and macabre from my love of fairy tales
- my parents drew me to higher lit and movies, etc. at my mother giving me permission, I read anything I liked. Their reading to me made it come alive.
- I was repressed in my youth both internally and by external sources: from my mother’s restrictions on TV and movies- Simpsons, and from my religious school
- I kind of agree with Stan’s philosophy in Stan knows best
- I have low self esteem- leading me to crave validation in being sexually objectified or seen as valuable or beautiful
- I want to be a romantic tragic manically quirky girl who losses her way- ala- Edie, holly, et al
- I am just the latest to come of age in a long line of beautiful women with blue or green eyes, good senses of humor, love of literature, weakness for marrying German guys, pale skin and predisposition to addictions. we have several cases of anorexia, binge eating disorder, alcoholism, depression, post partum depression, attraction to abusive men -also several divorces and a tendency to wildness in the teens/early twenties and thirties –such as hanging out at studio 54, etc. and discovering religion in middle age. But we are acknowledged as beautiful and creative and the descents of a woman killed as a witch in Europe.
- the philosophy of my bad habits can be stemmed back from a moment at a weekend guide camp, where after I threw a fit about it not being able to brush my teeth or something, and another girl said- one day won’t hurt, subconsciously it stuck
- I have no doubt my parents love me and not just as a daughter but as a person, but Emma I am not so sure. I am not even sure they love her as a person.
- I would rather believe in nothing than something that says to kill people for being who they are, classifies groups as of higher or lower status (in my mind the only superiority is in thinking things rather than accepting dogma), or only accepts one kind of love
- bluebird- all children are recycled personas, also I like to believe in reincarnation because it sounds like magic
- I hate when people take something fantasy and attempt to explain how the story is a delusion or a dream because it doesn’t happen in real life. to some extent it I can acknowledge it as thought or conspiracy theory or the actual purpose of a metaphor (although usually in an allegory the story can be appreciated on both levels rather than taking something like the crucible and only discussing communism), sometimes fantasy is just that, a break from reality, an excitement. like my mother always said, you must suspend your beliefs. In my view, that is why we make fiction, to inject magic into our lives
- I have a naturally high mindset- maybe from Alice?
- I love the idea of project mayhem. I spent so much of my time when bored, imagining that horrible thing like shootings, bombing, plagues or bloody revolutions would happen right in front of me, just to change the pace and break through the numbness of boredom
- I have been naturally masochistic all my life and not noticed it. my Barbies were always tortured and kidnapped and made to work as maids, or belittled by the rich girls etc. even in watching fiction, I wanted bad things to happen to the characters I liked
- I love reactions- many of the bully magnet/ weird girl things I did were purely to incite it.
- I refuse to imagine decomposing and decaying- I want to be cremated- maybe because of zombie movies
- I am disgusted by pregnancy. I like children- other people’s. but I refuse to have my own. the only con of this in my opinion is not having someone in the story to put such importance on you as their mother or talk care of you in your age. I find it sexist that a woman must be brought down and burdened with a child/ pregnancy even if she decides on abortion- she still has to deal with it somehow, while the man can just walk away. I am horrified by the idea of becoming that fragile that people would help you sit down, or carry things or touch your stomach, I never want to be in a state where I will be dismissed as too emotional or to delicate to hear things, and have the truth kept from me. movies like the beginning of the orphan and rosemary’s baby convince me of the horror. to have all these strange things, happen to you and people touching you and whispering things, and falsely reassuring you everything is fine, is just scary. it’s kind of like the adult version of the puberty worries dismissed as normal in ginger snaps. Maybe this stems from my mother’s constant telling us when watching Gilmore girls that if you had a baby at sixteen your life wouldn’t turn out that way, or from the life of my godmother who always seemed so adventurous and glamorous when I was a kid, jetting off all over the world having adventure, and not being tied down (although now I’m seeing that she considers her life kind of sad)
- I want the freedom to travel and spent money on myself and the things I want. I don’t want to finally have my freedom to adventure and have to raise kids, also I’d really screw them up. even when I was a kid and wanted a lot of kids, it was never about raising them, only being able to pick lots of names and buy them stuff out of the kids section of the sears wishbook.
- My breasts, though I do love them, and my periods are useless, in the way they were intended. I like the idea of being on the pill, making me a genetic dead end
- I have a sort-of adopted Nigerian sister, and I am okay with that.
-My concept of voting (that its not okay to vote for yourself) came from The Brave Little Toaster on Mars
- I still consider myself a child, a girl not a woman, and never wish to move beyond it. I always want to stay in awe, and never want to lose my wonder. never! I’d fight for it. my greatest fear is living in the suburbs and thinking about how I always wanted to travel and write a book and how I used to be a great singer, who filled a house with music. I am afraid of being trapped and tied down in the same place day after day, after day. I need to move and change! I am afraid of those people who hate winter because they have to shovel snow or hate fall because they have to rake leaves, or hate summer because there are kids everywhere or hate spring because it rains, and grumble about everything, because they have no wonder or nothing new.
- daria see things quote
I am not original; I am a construct, and a direct descendant of every person or media I have been exposed to
- I feared Dracula, He was the first thing I was ever afraid of, that and fire. I slept with garlic cloves, crosses and closed
doors. Somehow I`m still that scared little girl, even though nothing scares me now but surprises , like toast popping up and people jumping out from behind bushes.
- I fear burning and hot showers from R.L. Stein cheerleaders
- I want a higher purpose/ quest from fantasy epics like Ella enchanted, the hobbit and last unicorn and woz
- I am drawn to grim and macabre from my love of fairy tales
- my parents drew me to higher lit and movies, etc. at my mother giving me permission, I read anything I liked. Their reading to me made it come alive.
- I was repressed in my youth both internally and by external sources: from my mother’s restrictions on TV and movies- Simpsons, and from my religious school
- I kind of agree with Stan’s philosophy in Stan knows best
- I have low self esteem- leading me to crave validation in being sexually objectified or seen as valuable or beautiful
- I want to be a romantic tragic manically quirky girl who losses her way- ala- Edie, holly, et al
- I am just the latest to come of age in a long line of beautiful women with blue or green eyes, good senses of humor, love of literature, weakness for marrying German guys, pale skin and predisposition to addictions. we have several cases of anorexia, binge eating disorder, alcoholism, depression, post partum depression, attraction to abusive men -also several divorces and a tendency to wildness in the teens/early twenties and thirties –such as hanging out at studio 54, etc. and discovering religion in middle age. But we are acknowledged as beautiful and creative and the descents of a woman killed as a witch in Europe.
- the philosophy of my bad habits can be stemmed back from a moment at a weekend guide camp, where after I threw a fit about it not being able to brush my teeth or something, and another girl said- one day won’t hurt, subconsciously it stuck
- I have no doubt my parents love me and not just as a daughter but as a person, but Emma I am not so sure. I am not even sure they love her as a person.
- I would rather believe in nothing than something that says to kill people for being who they are, classifies groups as of higher or lower status (in my mind the only superiority is in thinking things rather than accepting dogma), or only accepts one kind of love
- bluebird- all children are recycled personas, also I like to believe in reincarnation because it sounds like magic
- I hate when people take something fantasy and attempt to explain how the story is a delusion or a dream because it doesn’t happen in real life. to some extent it I can acknowledge it as thought or conspiracy theory or the actual purpose of a metaphor (although usually in an allegory the story can be appreciated on both levels rather than taking something like the crucible and only discussing communism), sometimes fantasy is just that, a break from reality, an excitement. like my mother always said, you must suspend your beliefs. In my view, that is why we make fiction, to inject magic into our lives
- I have a naturally high mindset- maybe from Alice?
- I love the idea of project mayhem. I spent so much of my time when bored, imagining that horrible thing like shootings, bombing, plagues or bloody revolutions would happen right in front of me, just to change the pace and break through the numbness of boredom
- I have been naturally masochistic all my life and not noticed it. my Barbies were always tortured and kidnapped and made to work as maids, or belittled by the rich girls etc. even in watching fiction, I wanted bad things to happen to the characters I liked
- I love reactions- many of the bully magnet/ weird girl things I did were purely to incite it.
- I refuse to imagine decomposing and decaying- I want to be cremated- maybe because of zombie movies
- I am disgusted by pregnancy. I like children- other people’s. but I refuse to have my own. the only con of this in my opinion is not having someone in the story to put such importance on you as their mother or talk care of you in your age. I find it sexist that a woman must be brought down and burdened with a child/ pregnancy even if she decides on abortion- she still has to deal with it somehow, while the man can just walk away. I am horrified by the idea of becoming that fragile that people would help you sit down, or carry things or touch your stomach, I never want to be in a state where I will be dismissed as too emotional or to delicate to hear things, and have the truth kept from me. movies like the beginning of the orphan and rosemary’s baby convince me of the horror. to have all these strange things, happen to you and people touching you and whispering things, and falsely reassuring you everything is fine, is just scary. it’s kind of like the adult version of the puberty worries dismissed as normal in ginger snaps. Maybe this stems from my mother’s constant telling us when watching Gilmore girls that if you had a baby at sixteen your life wouldn’t turn out that way, or from the life of my godmother who always seemed so adventurous and glamorous when I was a kid, jetting off all over the world having adventure, and not being tied down (although now I’m seeing that she considers her life kind of sad)
- I want the freedom to travel and spent money on myself and the things I want. I don’t want to finally have my freedom to adventure and have to raise kids, also I’d really screw them up. even when I was a kid and wanted a lot of kids, it was never about raising them, only being able to pick lots of names and buy them stuff out of the kids section of the sears wishbook.
- My breasts, though I do love them, and my periods are useless, in the way they were intended. I like the idea of being on the pill, making me a genetic dead end
- I have a sort-of adopted Nigerian sister, and I am okay with that.
-My concept of voting (that its not okay to vote for yourself) came from The Brave Little Toaster on Mars
- I still consider myself a child, a girl not a woman, and never wish to move beyond it. I always want to stay in awe, and never want to lose my wonder. never! I’d fight for it. my greatest fear is living in the suburbs and thinking about how I always wanted to travel and write a book and how I used to be a great singer, who filled a house with music. I am afraid of being trapped and tied down in the same place day after day, after day. I need to move and change! I am afraid of those people who hate winter because they have to shovel snow or hate fall because they have to rake leaves, or hate summer because there are kids everywhere or hate spring because it rains, and grumble about everything, because they have no wonder or nothing new.
- daria see things quote
Sunday, October 18, 2009
My Father Told Me This Advice: Batman Is Not Bruce Wayne's Secret Identity, Bruce Wayne Is Batman's. Live Like That.
This is a flawed person unwravelling, if you ever wanted to see what it looked like...
Still... i don’t know why
Why the world turns, why the sky is blue, why the trees paint orange, yellow and red in autumn and cast their leaves to all corners of the world (often getting caught in my unruly hair, or on the tips of my badass black adventurer boots), or why I shift so easily from euthoria where everything is perfect and music follows me everywhere I go, to the depths of despair and crying curled up on the bathroom floor. I thought university would make it better. I thought there'd be someone to love.
But no, it never works that way. Not for me, mourning for myself.
The golden girl who skipped around camp singing "You've got to S-M-I- L-E, to be H-A- double P- Y!" at the top of her lungs in gone now. She's a ghost in the sheet. She isn't here. She went away. All play and no work makes Art Nouveau Girls real jerks.
The glass isn't full or empty. There is no glass.
And I'll stick to that.
Triumph is too much to ask for. I'm not a movie, I was rasied in too many fairy tales. I dont win at the end, the evils don't get thier comeuppance.
I just keep falling apart even when I thought there was no further to fall.
Crying in pieces on the floor. Unloveable.
I'm the faded remains of the girl I once was. I can still see her, hear her laugh, but she will never get to grow up. Never live into who she was supposed to be. Never change. She calls to me, but there is nothing I can do. I'm frozen and trapped working to goals I fear I will never live long enough to achieve.
I’ve been searching for answers for so long, I’ve forgotten the questions. I'm forgetting how to dream, only my pathetic nightmares claim me, they know my name. Each night I'm alone in the dark and I don't even know what I see. I just remember darkness, pain and raping trees that taunt me in Brooke Kotak or my bitch roomate's voices.
And somehow everyone, everything that exist moves on and forgets me. I’m left behind in the wasteland, choking and dust waiting for the adventurers to return home. I’m a memory till you find me again, unchanged. Older, a little jaded, but no wiser. Like Mrs. Lovett, left behind and forgotten, but I never will forget you.
They passed down these roads long ago and the red bull followed close behind
I’ve got so many issues, i have nothing left. There’s nobody to talk me off the ledge. I’m drowning in insanity, i’ve forgotten how it feels to be real and not a nightmare.
I'm falling apart and forgetting my own name. Falling deeper and deeper into lucid sleep and delusion with with each waking moment. I'm not numb. I wish I was numb. I just feel too much. And nothing real seems to matter to me anymore, just the nightmare reaching out for me, ready to devour me, swallow me whole and drown the bright little centre of my world. I'm starting to fear that I'm not the star in my own story that I'm not the pretty little ingenue that wins in the end. That I just continue to live like this in increasing misery with each step up I go.
Lets be Kids again!
In spite of my often morally questionable behaviour or flawed moral compass, I am a good person who values politeness to the same degree as vulgarity, at least in my mind, has great karma. I don't think I deserve it.
My father told me this, and I just wish I could see things that way but I'm not ready yet,
"I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amuse.d."
-Elvis Costello.
I like to think I'm almost there.
I stood on the ledge last night, closer than I have ever dared go before. The people I love, who love me, seemed to faded into distant shadows of a life I once lived and took for granted. I will never get them back. they will all forget me and live their lives without the curse of me, the double edge of misery and joy, the divine and the obscure. I don't have the light or strength that used to get me though. All is quiet, dour and dark. And I cannot see the end unless I create one for myself. I laid on my bed fantasing about my own death. and it felt beautiful and terrible. But is wasn't so tragic.
I held a bottle of pills and a razor blade and wondered who would attend my funeral. Would my tourmentors cry? I have no lovers to leave behind, no one to write my story, so I'm charged with my own. I don't want to hate the world or hate the gift of love but this is where my road has brought me, imagining the blood in waves and trying to decide which of my unworn dresses was best for a poetic tableau of death.
But something kept me here, anchored in my skin. I'd love to say it was love or hope, but it was cowardliness. I couldn't kill myself because I didn't know how it ends. I'm not ready to stop, But I can't go on, so I remain in purgetory waiting to be judged. If this is all there, I can't throw it all away just yet. If could get better just around the corner.
It could.
Plus I just couldn't stand the pain or actively cut a razor across my veins. I couldn't slit my wrists because I couldn't take the plunge. I couldn't let everyone left behind judge me and decide I wasnt strong that i was melodramatic or insane or reduce my short life of music, poetry and awe into a statistic before I've written or loved.
This I will never tell anyone who I actually know. I will never get help. I can't its too embrassing to admit how weak I am. That strength and is just a front, I've used to keep people away since the second grade.
I'm selfish and worthless. I didn't worry that killing myself was killing my suportive mother who is basically me at 53 who cries for me at nights or my quietly loving big kid of a father with his heartbreaking looks that convey all the love in the world for his little girl. Or destroy my little sister and best friend who already mourns for my life and what I could be but am afraid to let myself become.
If they love me, I don't deserve them.
I am Birdie Girl. I've always been. But I don't remember like it was ever me, just a life I watched from the sidelines.
If I died, no one would be missing much.
If I died, maybe I could fly.
I miss my picture windows where I could walk downstairs and let the waning moon be my confidant, sit on teh steps and watch the cars go by and the lights go off, and not feel so alone.
Still... i don’t know why
Why the world turns, why the sky is blue, why the trees paint orange, yellow and red in autumn and cast their leaves to all corners of the world (often getting caught in my unruly hair, or on the tips of my badass black adventurer boots), or why I shift so easily from euthoria where everything is perfect and music follows me everywhere I go, to the depths of despair and crying curled up on the bathroom floor. I thought university would make it better. I thought there'd be someone to love.
But no, it never works that way. Not for me, mourning for myself.
The golden girl who skipped around camp singing "You've got to S-M-I- L-E, to be H-A- double P- Y!" at the top of her lungs in gone now. She's a ghost in the sheet. She isn't here. She went away. All play and no work makes Art Nouveau Girls real jerks.
The glass isn't full or empty. There is no glass.
And I'll stick to that.
Triumph is too much to ask for. I'm not a movie, I was rasied in too many fairy tales. I dont win at the end, the evils don't get thier comeuppance.
I just keep falling apart even when I thought there was no further to fall.
Crying in pieces on the floor. Unloveable.
I'm the faded remains of the girl I once was. I can still see her, hear her laugh, but she will never get to grow up. Never live into who she was supposed to be. Never change. She calls to me, but there is nothing I can do. I'm frozen and trapped working to goals I fear I will never live long enough to achieve.
I’ve been searching for answers for so long, I’ve forgotten the questions. I'm forgetting how to dream, only my pathetic nightmares claim me, they know my name. Each night I'm alone in the dark and I don't even know what I see. I just remember darkness, pain and raping trees that taunt me in Brooke Kotak or my bitch roomate's voices.
And somehow everyone, everything that exist moves on and forgets me. I’m left behind in the wasteland, choking and dust waiting for the adventurers to return home. I’m a memory till you find me again, unchanged. Older, a little jaded, but no wiser. Like Mrs. Lovett, left behind and forgotten, but I never will forget you.
They passed down these roads long ago and the red bull followed close behind
I’ve got so many issues, i have nothing left. There’s nobody to talk me off the ledge. I’m drowning in insanity, i’ve forgotten how it feels to be real and not a nightmare.
I'm falling apart and forgetting my own name. Falling deeper and deeper into lucid sleep and delusion with with each waking moment. I'm not numb. I wish I was numb. I just feel too much. And nothing real seems to matter to me anymore, just the nightmare reaching out for me, ready to devour me, swallow me whole and drown the bright little centre of my world. I'm starting to fear that I'm not the star in my own story that I'm not the pretty little ingenue that wins in the end. That I just continue to live like this in increasing misery with each step up I go.
Lets be Kids again!
In spite of my often morally questionable behaviour or flawed moral compass, I am a good person who values politeness to the same degree as vulgarity, at least in my mind, has great karma. I don't think I deserve it.
My father told me this, and I just wish I could see things that way but I'm not ready yet,
"I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amuse.d."
-Elvis Costello.
I like to think I'm almost there.
I stood on the ledge last night, closer than I have ever dared go before. The people I love, who love me, seemed to faded into distant shadows of a life I once lived and took for granted. I will never get them back. they will all forget me and live their lives without the curse of me, the double edge of misery and joy, the divine and the obscure. I don't have the light or strength that used to get me though. All is quiet, dour and dark. And I cannot see the end unless I create one for myself. I laid on my bed fantasing about my own death. and it felt beautiful and terrible. But is wasn't so tragic.
I held a bottle of pills and a razor blade and wondered who would attend my funeral. Would my tourmentors cry? I have no lovers to leave behind, no one to write my story, so I'm charged with my own. I don't want to hate the world or hate the gift of love but this is where my road has brought me, imagining the blood in waves and trying to decide which of my unworn dresses was best for a poetic tableau of death.
But something kept me here, anchored in my skin. I'd love to say it was love or hope, but it was cowardliness. I couldn't kill myself because I didn't know how it ends. I'm not ready to stop, But I can't go on, so I remain in purgetory waiting to be judged. If this is all there, I can't throw it all away just yet. If could get better just around the corner.
It could.
Plus I just couldn't stand the pain or actively cut a razor across my veins. I couldn't slit my wrists because I couldn't take the plunge. I couldn't let everyone left behind judge me and decide I wasnt strong that i was melodramatic or insane or reduce my short life of music, poetry and awe into a statistic before I've written or loved.
This I will never tell anyone who I actually know. I will never get help. I can't its too embrassing to admit how weak I am. That strength and is just a front, I've used to keep people away since the second grade.
I'm selfish and worthless. I didn't worry that killing myself was killing my suportive mother who is basically me at 53 who cries for me at nights or my quietly loving big kid of a father with his heartbreaking looks that convey all the love in the world for his little girl. Or destroy my little sister and best friend who already mourns for my life and what I could be but am afraid to let myself become.
If they love me, I don't deserve them.
I am Birdie Girl. I've always been. But I don't remember like it was ever me, just a life I watched from the sidelines.
If I died, no one would be missing much.
If I died, maybe I could fly.
I miss my picture windows where I could walk downstairs and let the waning moon be my confidant, sit on teh steps and watch the cars go by and the lights go off, and not feel so alone.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Cathartic Letter To My Bitch Roomate
THE LIGHT:
It broke when you were here, you were the first one to aware of it, and you left first that morning (and must have had to go past the res. Desk where you could have easily have reported it), a morning where I was not only sick and coughing, but feeling totally faint and disoriented. I did not get it fixed that weekend because I was sick and miserable and just wanted to curl up and die, not have to worry about having people in the room fixing it, etc. Also I didn’t feel like doing it after you ORDERED me to! You were here for the entire week after that, as well as back earlier than me after this weekend, there is NO REASON why you couldn’t have gotten it fixed. Just because you ORDERED me in your last note to fix it, does not make it my responsibility or mean that you don’t have to do it and can leave it for me. Also, why in the world do you think your homework and midterms matter more than mine? I have exams and classes just like you do, yours are NOT more important !
COUGHING:
I am so SORRY that my being sick last week and practically coughing my lungs up and my throat raw bothered you and kept you up. Its not like I could help it, and I did do what you suggested in coughing into a pillow, but I’m sorry, its just another unpleasant part of sharing a room with someone, complaining, being sarcastic or acting like you are the only one suffering does not help. And no, when I am sick and feeling like I am dying, I do not need to hear that you get vitamin C, from you in your most condescending voice
THE MESS:
I have never seen a single bug in the room, but there are bugs everywhere, get used to living in the world. MY side of the room is MY own concern. I have not messed up yours, put anything on your side or asked you to clean it for me. You are NOT my mother and do not have the right to act like you are. I really don’t care about the vacuuming. It really does not matter and there is no ultra pressing reason to do it. Feel free to do only your side, even if mine reached your standards of cleanliness and you weren’t just spending all your time griping over everything. It really is the thing I am least concerned about right now, as I like you, have midterms exams, essays and homework that are all JUST as important as yours.
SHARED ROOM, NOT ONLY YOURS:
You have to get used to the idea that this is a SHARED room, that is EQUALLY ours, not you room that I am renting a bed in or something. I will get up when I want, I will leave when I want, I will follow my own schedule, you do not have the right to give me what must be your trademark condescending look and make me feel bad for waking up when I want to wake up. I keep the light on late and stay on the computer late, because you expressly told me that it was fine and did not bother you, if it does, I will stop, you don’t need to be all twofaced and get mad about it. Also, I have made an effort, even when it is difficult to use headphones, so I do not bother you when you are working. Please extend the same courtesy. I have made every conceivable effort to be nice to you, offering you chips or coke, or the use of my fridge, etc. , invited you if I was going to eat or to a meeting or event, but you have not cared to be nice to me (the one shocking examples was when you let me have one of your water bottles). I had really hoped that we could be friends or at least get along, but you just don’t seem to care or put in any sort of effort. So maybe you have noticed, I have given up on you.
Please get over yourself.
Fear and loathing,
- Liz
P.S. And pull your pants up when you are sitting down, I do not want to see your ass.
It broke when you were here, you were the first one to aware of it, and you left first that morning (and must have had to go past the res. Desk where you could have easily have reported it), a morning where I was not only sick and coughing, but feeling totally faint and disoriented. I did not get it fixed that weekend because I was sick and miserable and just wanted to curl up and die, not have to worry about having people in the room fixing it, etc. Also I didn’t feel like doing it after you ORDERED me to! You were here for the entire week after that, as well as back earlier than me after this weekend, there is NO REASON why you couldn’t have gotten it fixed. Just because you ORDERED me in your last note to fix it, does not make it my responsibility or mean that you don’t have to do it and can leave it for me. Also, why in the world do you think your homework and midterms matter more than mine? I have exams and classes just like you do, yours are NOT more important !
COUGHING:
I am so SORRY that my being sick last week and practically coughing my lungs up and my throat raw bothered you and kept you up. Its not like I could help it, and I did do what you suggested in coughing into a pillow, but I’m sorry, its just another unpleasant part of sharing a room with someone, complaining, being sarcastic or acting like you are the only one suffering does not help. And no, when I am sick and feeling like I am dying, I do not need to hear that you get vitamin C, from you in your most condescending voice
THE MESS:
I have never seen a single bug in the room, but there are bugs everywhere, get used to living in the world. MY side of the room is MY own concern. I have not messed up yours, put anything on your side or asked you to clean it for me. You are NOT my mother and do not have the right to act like you are. I really don’t care about the vacuuming. It really does not matter and there is no ultra pressing reason to do it. Feel free to do only your side, even if mine reached your standards of cleanliness and you weren’t just spending all your time griping over everything. It really is the thing I am least concerned about right now, as I like you, have midterms exams, essays and homework that are all JUST as important as yours.
SHARED ROOM, NOT ONLY YOURS:
You have to get used to the idea that this is a SHARED room, that is EQUALLY ours, not you room that I am renting a bed in or something. I will get up when I want, I will leave when I want, I will follow my own schedule, you do not have the right to give me what must be your trademark condescending look and make me feel bad for waking up when I want to wake up. I keep the light on late and stay on the computer late, because you expressly told me that it was fine and did not bother you, if it does, I will stop, you don’t need to be all twofaced and get mad about it. Also, I have made an effort, even when it is difficult to use headphones, so I do not bother you when you are working. Please extend the same courtesy. I have made every conceivable effort to be nice to you, offering you chips or coke, or the use of my fridge, etc. , invited you if I was going to eat or to a meeting or event, but you have not cared to be nice to me (the one shocking examples was when you let me have one of your water bottles). I had really hoped that we could be friends or at least get along, but you just don’t seem to care or put in any sort of effort. So maybe you have noticed, I have given up on you.
Please get over yourself.
Fear and loathing,
- Liz
P.S. And pull your pants up when you are sitting down, I do not want to see your ass.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Why The Internet Is Going To The Dogs:
Oh, the information superhighway, the world wide web (or World Wide Weberverse- according to Jake Morgandorffer), once a veritable mecca of readily (and often illegally) obtainable information and entertainment, where you could find out anything with the click of a button, instead of (tsk. tsk.) actually reading a book for once (what year did Mommie Dearest come out? What is the scientific name for sunflowers? Who starred in the original Marie Antoinette? How do I get to The Royal Alex from my house?) quickly and effectively solving bar and schoolyard fights, alike is rapidly disintegrating into a pay-as- you can database that undermines its entire purpose and ideaology
- The whole point of itunes was that you didn't have to pay for an entire CD when you only wanted a few songs. Now however, with the majority of new albums, the only only option I to buy the entire album, although in some cases things like theme songs or breakout hits are available on their own. This makes me love the Dresden Dolls a whole lot more, as a group that openly supports a pay-as-you-wish philosophy, on the grounds that music should be free and shared. Thier site features a virtual hat where you can leave donations if desired.
But as for itunes, I'll stick with Limewire, thank you very much.
-On youtube, it is often easier to find a cover of a song sung off key by someone at home, than the actual song. In addition, the site is currently cracking down on posted TV episodes and movies, which is frustrating, but understandable if the video in question is available to purchase and you were jut being cheap, but it is unfair in the cases of unreleased material (such as Daria episodes- although that is supposedly being released on dvd in 2010) or old movies that you cannot buy anywhere.
-We call ourselves the understanding generation that is open to all races, sexes and orientations, yet there are so many comments on blogs, entertainment posts, etc. that bash the writer, calling them offensive names and telling them they deserved whatever happened to them (be it abuse, rape, assault, robbery, etc,because they were the way they were. This is one thing I do not, and hope to never unstand. Why can't we all get along and love each other Christmas Eve?
-There is a growing trend in articles, such as those from newspapers, magazines, journals, studies, coles notes, and even people's personal ramblings in allowing the reader to access a page or paragraph of data, and then requiring them to pay to see any more.
It is predicted that this trend will eventually grow across the board, mostly in order to make up for the growing traffic of free news blogs and sites over actual newspapers (something as a student going into Journalism, I guess I will ultimatedly be grateful for)
- sites like FML (Fuck My Life), LML(Love My Life), and MLIA (My Life Is Average) were once fraught with fun little quips to joke with friends about and hours of distracting annecdotes to distract you from doing any actual work and give you a laugh and a break from everyday life is now certifiably corrupted. FML is still fine on its own, but the comment on the posts are horrible; bashing the poster , telling them they deserved horrible things like rape or getting kicked out of their house (some posts are less funny and more sad), calling them fake just becaue the scenerio was in a movie or something (yet could still plausibly happen) or desperately trying to be the first commenter (FIRST!). MLIA is actually a fun site full of cute everyday moments, but also suffers from commentor bashing, particularily being accusted of being fake. however a lot of posts from FML are being copied over to MLIA, which is strange considering how different they are supposed to be. LML is really the worst, at first it was hard to read after months of FMLs, meaning that you expected the worst for a poster who came a doctor's appointment to test for cancer or tried to ask someone out, but there's a darker side. Now people have started to triumphantly post on thier successful pranks (like making their sister eat grasshopper guts in her sandwich because the poster was forced to babysit her, etc), but there are some horrible ones, like the guy who stole an ipod and $70 from a kid with down syndrome or the guy who triumphantly posted that he punched his pregnant girlfriend in the stomach, and cheered when she dumped him because "its not my problem anymore". I can't stand guys who think a kid is the woman's falut or that they have no resonsibility for it (these are often the people are against abortion- rich, old men). Even worse are the people supporting these monstrous act or egging the poster on.
Some people need to be reminded that these sites are for entertainment, they are not a contest to be first or to find fakes, but if these sites question my faith in humanity, Post Secret restores it.
-In the past you pretty much discovered that a new movie or book was coming out when you saw the preview at the theatre or the ad in the last pages of a similar book, but now thanks to the internet, you can know years in advance and build things up into incredible hype. As the girl without the patience gene, I am particularily suseptible. Currently I'm waiting on tenderhooks for at least 50 movies and books that will most likely never be produced (more on that in a future post)
-There are also scary pro sites for almost anything you can think of- Anorexia (Ana), Bulimia (Mia), Nazism, gay-straight 'reeducation' programs, smoking, abstenance only based sex-ed, extremist pro-lifers, etc. While I recognize the right to free speech and thought, these types of communities make me wonder how these sort of ideology can be accepted and followed in today's fact based society, although I admit to a sick fasination with pro-ana sites, that really do serve their purpose in making me feel like a fat glutton.
-I used to love to spoil horror movie plots by reading indepth lists of each of the gimick kills in franchises like Saw, Final Destination and Urban Legend, but has of late, wikipedia has been removing these extremly intereting topics and leaving the pages as stubs only naming the movie's year, director and cast.
-There is also a marked preference of americans on sites like itunes which only offer certain tv shows (until recently canada was only allowed to buy canadian tv shows, even though the majority of canadian subsist on purely american content) and albums in the states. In addition much advertised sites like Hulu and Pandora are only accesible from an american ip adress. This is like the cool deals and specials you used to see on tv and run out to the resturant to find out they were only avaiable in the states (this even happened when watching canadian chanels)
-Also, if it is no longer true that the internet is for porn, much of its content still is. Said content often pops up in the middle of a PG search, and to quote Ms. Valerie Cherish, "I don't wanna see that!"
Monday, September 14, 2009
Go Out There And Do Something, And What Ever You Do, You Be Sure That You Love It
I'm going to tell you this, because I think you might be the only person I know who will understand it. The feeling I got in film class was magic. The film Cinema Paradiso was all about this boy whose who life was about movies effected him, and his awe of them, and I really connected to it. It was great, laugh, cry, etc. Magic!
Actually this is the movie I remember seeing on Elwy (Saturday Night At The Movies) soo many years ago. I have spent years wondering what movie it was, that the image stayed with me of a theatre burning down and film reels being ruined, and alittle boy dragging an old man down the metal stairs.
The teacher makes us stay till the credits are over, so I sit there leaning back in my chair and thinking almost epithany-like as I listen to the love theme play. When I get up, I feel like a perfect young old fashioned girl with my skirt and my black satchel bag and when I head outside it is raining and I have no umbrella. But for once I don't mind. I pull my hood over my head like a disguise (my hoodie is billowly and empire waisted like a cape or a robe. I set out in the rain, feeling magical. The rain hits the pavement and it glows in the streetlights. In the semi-darkness, I cannot see the cars, only their headlights and I can imagine that they are old cars of chrome and aquamarine paint. In the distance (actually right across the street) I can hear the train whistle, but I don't look to see it. I keep walking in the rain in my disguise, the rain clinging to my bare legs and squelching in my green plastic shoes.
I feel like I've stepped back in time. But at the same time it feels current. I feel poetic.
This is exactely where I'm supposed to be.
This makes absolutely perfect sense.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Exit, Pursued By A Bear
Our world is a strange one. That really does go without saying.
This is the world where greed, revenge and sex are our gods, and fame the alter we worship at, degrade ourselves even mutilate ourselves till we are only desperate pieces of unwritten pages lost to the fire, screaming as everything we ever thought we knew was entinguished and stamped out, ground to dust under a creul steel boot.
Then you have people like me who think they have no one to listen to, to believe in, to drink in as a fountain of sacred knowledge, poisoned tree of mocking flesh fruit. I'm the girl who got too wild and was "get thee to a nunnery'd". I rebelled and was passed off as insane to avoid the scandal. I'm begining to be Frances Farmer.
You see?
Bitter still as I am, bound to reality, even as I goad myself into the ether, try to force my crippled brain to beat it. I am fasinated my sensation, obcessed by my own pain, pulverized by this latest thing, each and every day, I need it like i need a hole in the head. Of which I have ever dire need. I looked in the nightmare box, and all I saw was the ghost of me.
I need to create the music to soundtrack my acid dreams. If theres' a chain of blank smiling paper dolls, who march serenly on, not knowing how thin thier truth is that can be ripped to shreds so easily and kissed by the wind of all four corners of the world, I beg to stop sheparding on. If i can be a bon vivant, babble and travel and do it all, rip myself free and devour my plain limbs. Bite down on the bullet, as the cut me off. Cut me free.
I want to be a wealthy, obnoious weirdo. A cult figure with a lisense to vulgarity, fasinating, captivating and unable to look away. I'll drink, curse and swear, I 'll insult, I'll create. I'll love, I'll dream, I'll run off in my patent leather boots.
But if I move out, can I still dream away of high ways and madness? Can I still lose my mind in runaway hopes? And write my fasinating biography for when I become a deluded Neely O'Hara star? Remember me already! I'm somebody. Or maybe that's only in my mind, I have no idea as to what it feels to think as somebody else. If I'm a paper doll, plain white ripped paper, I'll deal in the traffic of whimsy and whip smarts, doodle full body tattoos, so there's no denying what I am.
I'm not a good role model. Not somebody you want to mess with. I want it all right now down to pain and grit and tears and virtue. I want the rocker and the leather jacket and the peach silk ball gown, Not my misbigotten evil sister who every sees as potential, bait for rebellion and adventure. Sail the seven seas in gladness.
But these nights, I tiptoe downstairs in my watermelon party dress and a conical birthday hat, bright and beloved and sit it the dark kitchen drinking ginger ale out of a champagne glass. I sit still in the dark in tears, watching the portait of total despair and sadness, the renoir girl drink and drown in salt. I don't know why I cry. I just can't do anything else. I can't even breathe as I watch myself from outside the walls, I'm a stranger I don't recognize and I want the girl to go.
I sit on the steps and watch the night race by through the picture window. If i stop thinking realitionallly, I can believe that they're all racing off the save me, but no one ever comes. I'm cold all the time. I'm boilng in the oven. I'm done. I hold myself 'cause no one else will.
I try to hold on.
I'm slipping...
I can resist anything...but temptation. But I've never know myself to be tempted. I've just begun to wander the desert, I set out 40 days ago, but I emerge no wiser. Only that much bitter for the effort to understand. I belittle others for lack of intelligence but drown in mine own. It doesn't make me smarter, bitterer or prettier, just chutes and ladders as I head back to start. I've been here so long I recognize the trees.
My grandmother gossips in apple kuchen german in the next room and it fades to dulcet tones. I only knew what to say. I can't ever voice my ambitions in words when I spend my life devouring and committing them to my archives. I just don't know anything.
I just know everything. But I can't sort it out. Living is becoming a dizzy dream , the worlld like a veil over true reality as I spin to oblivion round and around on the carousel, I'm getting less mature ansd stable with age. One day I'll wake up and forget how to care for myself. I can feel it coming. I'm just so weak, meek, so gauche.
I'm awkwardnes personified but it feels like heaven.
Morning is a dream, and ripping pages of the calender of borrowed time is like ripping my paper heart to phoenix pieces, my nadir, base memorial.
If I only I could rise again as I once was safe, confident and stable. Before I was pieces that forgot to fit together.
I had a dream that I was a sort of killer. In a white dress, I woke up in my bed drowsily in the early morning as the sun started to rub the last fragments of sleep from its eyes, and wandered in the bathroom squinting in the artifical light. I sqeeze the toothpaste tube, holding out my plastic brush, but all that comes out is organs and innards, a mess of spare parts scarlet and guts. But there's laughter. Someone is laughing as I watch in silent shock. This pretends to be real but it does a better job existing than it does in mocking me. Laughter drives me into insantity and I've forgotten how to read, how to count how to need. Blue eyes adjust to the bitter glare, and I see my other hand holds a knife. It drips in blood. So much I'm drowning with no time for a caucus race. But the blood, is revealed to belong to me. I'm just a gaping hole. A wound dripping blood from my own shiny glinting knife. The laughter is coming from me.
What's that knife?
You smile at me.
This is the world where greed, revenge and sex are our gods, and fame the alter we worship at, degrade ourselves even mutilate ourselves till we are only desperate pieces of unwritten pages lost to the fire, screaming as everything we ever thought we knew was entinguished and stamped out, ground to dust under a creul steel boot.
Then you have people like me who think they have no one to listen to, to believe in, to drink in as a fountain of sacred knowledge, poisoned tree of mocking flesh fruit. I'm the girl who got too wild and was "get thee to a nunnery'd". I rebelled and was passed off as insane to avoid the scandal. I'm begining to be Frances Farmer.
You see?
Bitter still as I am, bound to reality, even as I goad myself into the ether, try to force my crippled brain to beat it. I am fasinated my sensation, obcessed by my own pain, pulverized by this latest thing, each and every day, I need it like i need a hole in the head. Of which I have ever dire need. I looked in the nightmare box, and all I saw was the ghost of me.
I need to create the music to soundtrack my acid dreams. If theres' a chain of blank smiling paper dolls, who march serenly on, not knowing how thin thier truth is that can be ripped to shreds so easily and kissed by the wind of all four corners of the world, I beg to stop sheparding on. If i can be a bon vivant, babble and travel and do it all, rip myself free and devour my plain limbs. Bite down on the bullet, as the cut me off. Cut me free.
I want to be a wealthy, obnoious weirdo. A cult figure with a lisense to vulgarity, fasinating, captivating and unable to look away. I'll drink, curse and swear, I 'll insult, I'll create. I'll love, I'll dream, I'll run off in my patent leather boots.
But if I move out, can I still dream away of high ways and madness? Can I still lose my mind in runaway hopes? And write my fasinating biography for when I become a deluded Neely O'Hara star? Remember me already! I'm somebody. Or maybe that's only in my mind, I have no idea as to what it feels to think as somebody else. If I'm a paper doll, plain white ripped paper, I'll deal in the traffic of whimsy and whip smarts, doodle full body tattoos, so there's no denying what I am.
I'm not a good role model. Not somebody you want to mess with. I want it all right now down to pain and grit and tears and virtue. I want the rocker and the leather jacket and the peach silk ball gown, Not my misbigotten evil sister who every sees as potential, bait for rebellion and adventure. Sail the seven seas in gladness.
But these nights, I tiptoe downstairs in my watermelon party dress and a conical birthday hat, bright and beloved and sit it the dark kitchen drinking ginger ale out of a champagne glass. I sit still in the dark in tears, watching the portait of total despair and sadness, the renoir girl drink and drown in salt. I don't know why I cry. I just can't do anything else. I can't even breathe as I watch myself from outside the walls, I'm a stranger I don't recognize and I want the girl to go.
I sit on the steps and watch the night race by through the picture window. If i stop thinking realitionallly, I can believe that they're all racing off the save me, but no one ever comes. I'm cold all the time. I'm boilng in the oven. I'm done. I hold myself 'cause no one else will.
I try to hold on.
I'm slipping...
I can resist anything...but temptation. But I've never know myself to be tempted. I've just begun to wander the desert, I set out 40 days ago, but I emerge no wiser. Only that much bitter for the effort to understand. I belittle others for lack of intelligence but drown in mine own. It doesn't make me smarter, bitterer or prettier, just chutes and ladders as I head back to start. I've been here so long I recognize the trees.
My grandmother gossips in apple kuchen german in the next room and it fades to dulcet tones. I only knew what to say. I can't ever voice my ambitions in words when I spend my life devouring and committing them to my archives. I just don't know anything.
I just know everything. But I can't sort it out. Living is becoming a dizzy dream , the worlld like a veil over true reality as I spin to oblivion round and around on the carousel, I'm getting less mature ansd stable with age. One day I'll wake up and forget how to care for myself. I can feel it coming. I'm just so weak, meek, so gauche.
I'm awkwardnes personified but it feels like heaven.
Morning is a dream, and ripping pages of the calender of borrowed time is like ripping my paper heart to phoenix pieces, my nadir, base memorial.
If I only I could rise again as I once was safe, confident and stable. Before I was pieces that forgot to fit together.
I had a dream that I was a sort of killer. In a white dress, I woke up in my bed drowsily in the early morning as the sun started to rub the last fragments of sleep from its eyes, and wandered in the bathroom squinting in the artifical light. I sqeeze the toothpaste tube, holding out my plastic brush, but all that comes out is organs and innards, a mess of spare parts scarlet and guts. But there's laughter. Someone is laughing as I watch in silent shock. This pretends to be real but it does a better job existing than it does in mocking me. Laughter drives me into insantity and I've forgotten how to read, how to count how to need. Blue eyes adjust to the bitter glare, and I see my other hand holds a knife. It drips in blood. So much I'm drowning with no time for a caucus race. But the blood, is revealed to belong to me. I'm just a gaping hole. A wound dripping blood from my own shiny glinting knife. The laughter is coming from me.
What's that knife?
You smile at me.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Who Needs Blood When You Have Lipstick
I made a little doll of Marie Antoinette.
It's head broke off.
Is that supposed to mean something?
He sits at the end of my bed, reading me my life...
She has to nurse him back to health, his wings are broken. Sleepy, smoky kind of lazy. Big white feathers.
The earth, it tilts, begging us to suicide.
To decide to end the splendorific night.
She has to nurse him back to health, his wings are broken. Sleepy, smoky kind of lazy. Big white feathers.
The earth, it tilts, begging us to suicide.
To decide to end the splendorific night.
I try not to imagine him hanging from the ledge. Try not to imagine him falling
I try not to die every day. But its been getting harder
I try not to die every day. But its been getting harder
I wanted passionately to know what it feels like to want something passionately.
They wanted to keep us from getting lost.
Beating out/looking in/the shameful smiles/the chesire grin/i’m the dog howling at the moon/ i am a stark mad raving loon
It hits me, baby take a bow. You’re nothing but statistic now
Fools separated by sheets/Stolen virtue/Delve into the streets/eat out of the gutter/’til the lights go on/at last.
They wanted to keep us from getting lost.
Beating out/looking in/the shameful smiles/the chesire grin/i’m the dog howling at the moon/ i am a stark mad raving loon
It hits me, baby take a bow. You’re nothing but statistic now
Fools separated by sheets/Stolen virtue/Delve into the streets/eat out of the gutter/’til the lights go on/at last.
You can't try to make sense out of this.
- Catatonic Angel of Solace
Friday, August 7, 2009
I Am Possessed Of Some Sorta Crazy Witch Powers.
SO, lately I've been watching 80's movies running through Ghost, Working Girl, Dirty Dancing, etc. Before stumbling onto the works of John Hughes (not for the first time, Ferris Bueller's Day Off was one of the movies played in our grade school bus on our grad trip to Ottawa {where I move in less than a month}, and Pretty in Pink was watched a long time ago on the advice of my mother ) which is some sort of irony considering that I recently graduated high school without viewing what is commonly acknowledged as the seminal movie of the high school experience. Earlier in the summer I also watched Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles and that Back to the Future Family Guy spoof and my Father's favourite actor, John Candy in Uncle Buck.
So, for that, as well as the recommendation of my new future college pal who I'll call Blondie who counts it as her favourite movie, and due to the Futurama episode with Fry's eight leaf clover which he hides in his prized copy of The Breakfast Club soundtrack LP, I decided to watch the movie for myself yesterday. For the record dolls, in case someone asks I find myself in retrospect looking back over my high school experience, yeah, I'm a basketcase.
I'm so Allison Reynolds, only not so exagerated (ie I don't have dandruff or growl at people). Funny thing through, he ending up with Andrew the jock, is kind of like Juno saying that all the popular boys secretly want the weird girl. Except, I really do like my boys bad. Like maybe, Bender.
"The funny thing is that Steve Rendazzo secretly wants me. Jocks like him always want freaky girls. Girls with horn-rimmed glasses and vegan footwear and Goth makeup. Girls who, like, play the cello and read McSweeneys and want to be children’s librarians when they grow up. Oh yeah, jocks totally eat that shit up. They just won’t admit it because they’re supposed to be into, like, the perfect cheerleaders, you know? Like Leah, who, incidentally, is into teachers".
I hope that's true. I read McSweeneys and wear bright red Miu Miu cat's eye glasses and give myself winged eyes every morning. I will certainly be a interesting adult.
Anyway, I think I may be the fourth witch of Eastwick. Today I find out that John Hughes, the creator of most of the classic 80's Brat Pack movies died while I was sitting there watching the movie. Really, at the exact same time. I hear the intro essay read by Hayley Mills look-a-like Anthony Michael Hall at the movie's beginning and John Hughes is alive, but by the time the essay is read again with all the kid's voices and the camera freezing on Bender as he leaves the school to Don't You (Forget About Me), John Hughes is dead
so, yeah.
I'm creepy. And scared.
Run away from me. You may be next in the line of my unintentional killings.
But if you're like me, you'll stay tuned. I may just be a compulsive liar.
-Starry- Eyed
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The Last Piece Of Pineapple
More and more i am realizing how much i want someone to love me. In my world, in my once familiar life, my rooms, I am suddenly exposed alone and insecure. I dream of someone, one person in the world who i feel comfortable with sharing my every shameful secret and kinky desire, someone whose judgement i do not fear, but whose exceptance i willfully earn through odiendece. I yearn for someone who loes me for the profound essence that is me, that they listen in rapture to my stories, and allow me no shame or respite in secrets, that they want to see my baby pictures, loving even a little me, wishing to slip into to touch me in my life. I have only known one person outside of my immediate family who loves me, and remembers what I dream of, what i am most imtimately and remembers even my shallowest surface truths. The simple caring of insisting the last piece of pineapple in the orange chicken is mine, because I love pineapple.
Someone who can raise me in ways that have been neglected. While i am well versed, an old hat in matters of capable intelligence and historical and current events, i am but a stranger, a left behind child in essential other ways. I am still a child who plays with dolls, is enraptured by everything i see, laughs for no reason, has imaginary friends and has never learned that less is more. I have emerged from high school without the natural maturity of self understanding and acceptance, without my feet on the ground and my mind ensounced in reality and sense. My mind is unable to comprehend to reality, shunning painful facts and ignoring bitter truths even when confrontedhead-on by them, it only accepts what it is able to, a coping mechanism running on sunshine and self presevvation instincts too strong for my own good. Truly, I have been sheltered from the realities i have chosen to be, but no one has forced me back, to think of the practical descions and responsibilities of taking care of myself, keeping myself alive without interference or supervision. I need guidance in my every action, rules and lists, otherwise I will do nothing. Simply, I am unprepared, just not ready to live with out my reliant well-worn support system. I am at the point where there is precious little fundamental lessons my parents are capable of teaching me, past the point where their rules or customs will stick with me, where i am now, i am heavily intrenched in my beliefs what i know now may be all i am able to ever truly learn. I almost need a new parent than i need a lover, to take me in, teach me, and keep me in line, force me to do the things i really want. How in the world is it possible that i am becoming less mature, less secure as I grow up, as time passes, that I am steadily enytering my second phase of childhood as I should for all extensie purposes, be leaving it.
I am seventeen, a recent high school graduate who has done nothing yet, who has only herself to blame, and who is running short on time, on saniety, on strength to carry on in a sea of emptiness. In truth I am inexperienced, but I have allowed myself to continue on this path.
I watch my peers fall in the reciprocal love i am denied, make love and have meaningless sex, get drunk, do drugs, drive cars and crash and burn. Yet, i am nothing for doing nothing, i am not more valuable or lucky for not living
I am seventeen, a recent high school graduate who has done nothing yet, who has only herself to blame, and who is running short on time, on saniety, on strength to carry on in a sea of emptiness. In truth I am inexperienced, but I have allowed myself to continue on this path.
I watch my peers fall in the reciprocal love i am denied, make love and have meaningless sex, get drunk, do drugs, drive cars and crash and burn. Yet, i am nothing for doing nothing, i am not more valuable or lucky for not living
I live in a different world, I am a good girl, but I never decided to be.I was simply uninvited to the party. Its not that they hate me or dislike me in the least, its just that in my introversion in my twitching fear of unacceptance, i do not warrent even a second thought. I leave high school without a footprint in the sea, an imprint on their lives, though they have shaped me ,
There is no one I shall truly miss, no one who will truly rememberme, the girl who floated for four yearsin desperation amnd deteched fear, and refused to put down roots. I was a like porcelin doll who found herself to be less breakable then she’d ever considered.
There is no one I shall truly miss, no one who will truly rememberme, the girl who floated for four yearsin desperation amnd deteched fear, and refused to put down roots. I was a like porcelin doll who found herself to be less breakable then she’d ever considered.
I am just not well these days. Lately, I’ve taken to checking my set alarm over and over again before I am finally calm and assured enough to sleep. Really, its not just to remind myself that the alarm is set, that it will go off, that its at the right time. Really,its not just that I’m overly worried about the alarm not going off, and having to miss school, though I am. At the heart of things, it scares me to say, to confess, I’ve forgotten what the numbers mean, in triple checking, quadruple checking, i’m only trying to remind myself that 5:00 am is in the morning, trying desperatedly to remember if it comes before or after 4, or 12 or 1 o’clock. I cant help wonder, if i’m only losing my mind. Forgetting who i am.
I want three marriages, just like Mary Pickford or Marilyn Monroe (1 youthful lust, foolishness, 2 true love, 3 saftey )
Saturday, July 18, 2009
OOOH FASHIONX
Clarissa Darling
Jacy Farrow
Luna Lovegood (sounds like a porn star)
Claudia Kishi
Betty Warren
Chuck Charles
Anna
So, These Chocolate Bars Help Fight Terrorism?
It's the beginning of the summer and the rest of my life, and sitting around watching movies and sleep all day, I suddenly feel like a lazy Eric Foreman (a nerd who isnt even smart), the year he took off not working or going to school and sitting around in his basement back in the seventies. You know, before he went to medical school, got a job with House and became black.
I have a business idea. The Art House, a revival movie house, that would play the kind of movies that Elwy Yost used to play on TVO's Saturday Night At The Movies which my family used to watch together each saturday night when I was growing up. The program today is rampantly disappointing me and my father with movies from the nintie, whereas there was a time when a eighties movie was rare.
The theatre would play only best classic and obscure gem you couldn't see anywhere else. The place would have a vintage dress code of the era of the night, as well as a mini-dress-up room where you can rent costumes and a vintage boutique where you can buy them. Dinner would be served, fitting with the night's flick and after and before the show, the ballroom would host a dance with music of the era. It should be like going back in time.
It would be a Grand theatre with gold and brass and red curtains and a balcony for sitting. There would also talks about the movies before they start, as well as discussion sessions. I would love to go to this place, I think some people love it too.
My Marie Antoinette dream:
I wake up in my ordinary room, gets up and finds I am in classic Antoinette garb, hair, etc.
My bedroom walls fall away replaced by a glass ceiling, walls and floor, all showing beautiful views of sky and what looks like flying over Versailles. The door begins to glow and I stumble to it opening it to find myself dressed in what looks like the blue dress, in the middle of a long row of apartments/ houses that look like Soho. There is a long red carpet stretching through the street. As I walk down the carpet, people dressed as wolves and foxes (masks) in waistcoats and gowns throw rose petals on either side. At the end of the carpet there is an abyss and the floor falls away. She falls down what seems to be a rabbit hole, suddenly wearing coronation garb. All around my there are different disembodied voices screaming insults and testimonies, false accusations and pamphlet stuff. I fall landing on a giant pink frosted cake. My clothes become covered in cake. People, who now look like an angry mob of peasants with torches, pitchforks, etc. They are all screaming “let them eat cake.” Suddenly, now in a plain white dress, I am on a scaffold. I cannot move at all, I try. They pelt me with fruits, vegetables, etc. (but they land as neon colored paint balls). Then the scaffold floor falls away and turns into water which they stand on. Reflected in the water is Versailles, suddenly it is on all 4 sides and courtiers, the king, Fersen, Labelle, Polinac, etc. are there in finery, standing against the walls while the peasants stand right against the scaffold with guillotine. The Versailles walls move in and the crowds of peasants and courtiers mingle. They all begin to laugh and suddenly the guillotine clangs down, and with a jolt, I wakes up in her own bed.
I'm The Type Of Girl Who Can Watch Hours Of Horror Movies And Not be Scared But Screams Bloody Murder When The Toast Pops Out Of The Toaster
Apparently I am endearingly charming. Who knew?
1 When I was little, I used to spend hours on the swing set in my backyard, trying the swing high enough to fly.
2 I have a ridiculous amount of purses and shoes, yet sometimes I get the feeling that if they were all to suddenly disappear, I wouldn’t care. Almost as if I only have things because I feel like I’m supposed to.
3 I love being driven around, and sticking my head out the passenger side window and feeling the wind on my face and in my hair, I even like it when its snowing.
4 I am the messiest, most disorganized person ever, and I have no intention to change, whatsoever. I’ve actually gotten to the point where I am amused, by it all.
5 I still watch cartoons sometimes, and often get way too involved with them.
6 Sometimes I wonder if we could just be characters in a movie, book, or TV show, and some author somewhere is writing our lifes, as a story, and if they`re laughing at our pathetic attempts to find meaning. Or if the entire world is just a dream. Who’s dream it is, I really have no idea.
7 I think in terms of movies, seeing everything as scenes and needing the music that is playing to perfectly sync up to what is going on, or to what I’m feeling, like a soundtrack.
8 I have extremely vivid dreams, that alternate from being impossible fairy tale-type things, and being so close to real life that for days afterwards, I am unsure whether or not it actually happened.
9 I desperately want bright yellow walls, and big, bright windows. I am also hopelessly obsessed with kitsch, loving things that look like things, such as my chocolate bar mirror, bright colours and wild patterns, and little desk toys.
10 I love big funny words, like zeitgeist, sycophant and oxymoron and make a point of using them, even when they don’t apply. When I was little, I invented my own words, like Hilo (Hi and Hello), and Cha-Chos (how I said Chaos).
11 I don’t like they type of foods (like steak, or any type of poultry), served at any fancy meals, or special occasions, and sometimes I think it would be very easy for me to be a vegetarian.
12 I love dressing up in costume, and still play dress-up, making characters out of my own clothes, when I need to cheer-up. I also have a penchant for winged eyeliner.
13 I am weirdly superstitious about some things, needing anything with a number to be one of my three lucky numbers (3,6,9)or a combination of them. I also have a lucky necklace and bracelet, that I have to wear when I’m worried about something. I also, try to find significance in everything, finding that whenever I just heard about something or am interested in a certain topic, it or things related to it, appear everywhere, or that if I did something one day and a certain thing happened, then if I do it again, the same thing will happen again.
14 I constantly fall for the villains or anti-heroes in stories, finding them more interesting and endearingly flawed, then the heroes who are often boring one dimensional characters.
15 Thanks to my Dad, my childhood memories are mainly focused around on three things: Batman (I was Batgirl, now I`m more Harley Quinn), Records and the Beatles. I was also obsessed with The Last Unicorn and The Wizard of Oz.
16 I actually prefer simple daisies and dandelions to big expensive bouquets. I love it when it the spring, the field in front of BR is full of golden dandelions, and looks like the yellow brick road, and then In summer, is full of their wispy ghosts, that you can pick and make wishes on.
17 When I was little, I wholeheartedly believed in Unicorns, Fairies, and Mermaids.
18 Sometimes i wonder if I am really as grown-up and capable of taking care of myself as I like to think. Sometimes, i still feel like a little girl who was forced to grow up, and like I missed something important.
19 I seriously envy those characters in fiction, who can just leave everything in the middle of the night, put of long cloaks and go on quests or have fantastic adventures.
20 I want to be part of some big movement or revolution, or some interesting pop culture event that becomes part of history and that everybody`s kids learn about in school.
21 Whenever I go to sleep I feel like I am wasting time, and that i should be doing something else. I love staying up really late, until everyone else has gone to sleep and I feel like I am alone in the world, or like I am watching it from somewhere else.
22 I love that moment, when in an airplane, you are taking off and the ground feels like it is disappearing under your feet. I always take my shoes off and feel the ground under my sock feet. I also really like motorcycles. I actually wish I had enough courage to get one, one day. It just seems so free.
23 I am both extremely scared and incredibly excited to go away to school next year, I`m getting worried about starting all over (again).
24 I come off as a very timid, shy person on first impression, but if you get to know me, I really never shut-up (then you wish I was shy).
25 I love to laugh, (Hi, ten minute laughing fit) it is one of the best feelings ever, like letting your guard down and letting everyone see the real you.
1 When I was little, I used to spend hours on the swing set in my backyard, trying the swing high enough to fly.
2 I have a ridiculous amount of purses and shoes, yet sometimes I get the feeling that if they were all to suddenly disappear, I wouldn’t care. Almost as if I only have things because I feel like I’m supposed to.
3 I love being driven around, and sticking my head out the passenger side window and feeling the wind on my face and in my hair, I even like it when its snowing.
4 I am the messiest, most disorganized person ever, and I have no intention to change, whatsoever. I’ve actually gotten to the point where I am amused, by it all.
5 I still watch cartoons sometimes, and often get way too involved with them.
6 Sometimes I wonder if we could just be characters in a movie, book, or TV show, and some author somewhere is writing our lifes, as a story, and if they`re laughing at our pathetic attempts to find meaning. Or if the entire world is just a dream. Who’s dream it is, I really have no idea.
7 I think in terms of movies, seeing everything as scenes and needing the music that is playing to perfectly sync up to what is going on, or to what I’m feeling, like a soundtrack.
8 I have extremely vivid dreams, that alternate from being impossible fairy tale-type things, and being so close to real life that for days afterwards, I am unsure whether or not it actually happened.
9 I desperately want bright yellow walls, and big, bright windows. I am also hopelessly obsessed with kitsch, loving things that look like things, such as my chocolate bar mirror, bright colours and wild patterns, and little desk toys.
10 I love big funny words, like zeitgeist, sycophant and oxymoron and make a point of using them, even when they don’t apply. When I was little, I invented my own words, like Hilo (Hi and Hello), and Cha-Chos (how I said Chaos).
11 I don’t like they type of foods (like steak, or any type of poultry), served at any fancy meals, or special occasions, and sometimes I think it would be very easy for me to be a vegetarian.
12 I love dressing up in costume, and still play dress-up, making characters out of my own clothes, when I need to cheer-up. I also have a penchant for winged eyeliner.
13 I am weirdly superstitious about some things, needing anything with a number to be one of my three lucky numbers (3,6,9)or a combination of them. I also have a lucky necklace and bracelet, that I have to wear when I’m worried about something. I also, try to find significance in everything, finding that whenever I just heard about something or am interested in a certain topic, it or things related to it, appear everywhere, or that if I did something one day and a certain thing happened, then if I do it again, the same thing will happen again.
14 I constantly fall for the villains or anti-heroes in stories, finding them more interesting and endearingly flawed, then the heroes who are often boring one dimensional characters.
15 Thanks to my Dad, my childhood memories are mainly focused around on three things: Batman (I was Batgirl, now I`m more Harley Quinn), Records and the Beatles. I was also obsessed with The Last Unicorn and The Wizard of Oz.
16 I actually prefer simple daisies and dandelions to big expensive bouquets. I love it when it the spring, the field in front of BR is full of golden dandelions, and looks like the yellow brick road, and then In summer, is full of their wispy ghosts, that you can pick and make wishes on.
17 When I was little, I wholeheartedly believed in Unicorns, Fairies, and Mermaids.
18 Sometimes i wonder if I am really as grown-up and capable of taking care of myself as I like to think. Sometimes, i still feel like a little girl who was forced to grow up, and like I missed something important.
19 I seriously envy those characters in fiction, who can just leave everything in the middle of the night, put of long cloaks and go on quests or have fantastic adventures.
20 I want to be part of some big movement or revolution, or some interesting pop culture event that becomes part of history and that everybody`s kids learn about in school.
21 Whenever I go to sleep I feel like I am wasting time, and that i should be doing something else. I love staying up really late, until everyone else has gone to sleep and I feel like I am alone in the world, or like I am watching it from somewhere else.
22 I love that moment, when in an airplane, you are taking off and the ground feels like it is disappearing under your feet. I always take my shoes off and feel the ground under my sock feet. I also really like motorcycles. I actually wish I had enough courage to get one, one day. It just seems so free.
23 I am both extremely scared and incredibly excited to go away to school next year, I`m getting worried about starting all over (again).
24 I come off as a very timid, shy person on first impression, but if you get to know me, I really never shut-up (then you wish I was shy).
25 I love to laugh, (Hi, ten minute laughing fit) it is one of the best feelings ever, like letting your guard down and letting everyone see the real you.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A Sonnet For Lizzuh
Elizabeth, You Cool Are,
I Would Hit On You
If I'd Met You In A Bar
Had I Been A Boy, Fool
I Would Have Given A Throaty, "RARR"
Because you don't Look Like A Mule
Nay, You're An Enchanting Star,
And In My World You Rule
And Reign, A Benevolent Leader
Oh, Truly You Are A Wonderful Truth.
A joke sonnet a friend randomly wrote for me in the middle of work. Somehow it really made me feel better about myself. That, and the fact that when my Best Friend saw it, she got immediately jealous and tried her own half-assed attempt at flattery.
But really, How come my girl friends are the only ones who ever fight over me or tell me I'm pretty?
"He Immediately Accosted Them, And Presenting His Compliments, Invited Them To His Inn To Eat Macaroni...
I have a reoccurring dream of being alone in a dark room.
The room is pitch dark, but it’s the middle of the day, there’s a TV with bluish light, but it’s off and cable less. The windows are covered with sheets keeping all the light out, but a faint line of brightness coming under the door. There is a giant crimson velvet bed that has kind of a rounded edge, a feather comforter and pillow back headboard. I sit on the bed alone in a red cotton slip, shearing boots, and my hair in a half-up bouffant, with a sleep mask at its base pushed up on my forehead. By the side of the bed is a pile of brand-new counter culture books and glossy movies. On the other side is a room service tray of lobster and a punchbowl. I have no worries, nothing urgent to do. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t know what day it is, I have a friend who will call me in two months and wake me up. I could stay here in bed isolated forever. This place is completely cut-off from the world, even though it sits in the middle of the city, isolated in itself by anominity and by the height of the floor. I have a feeling that if I could find this place, I might be okay. Then I think I might finally feel safe, and right. If I had a few free months here, to rebuild, reform, I might get through this okay.
Like a cocoon. I’ll immerge with the perfect version of myself, and I’ll reform. I’ll call people back, answer letters, watch new TV, and find out about current events. And I’ll finally realize what the world is about, and if I really need other people to live, to stay sane.
The room is pitch dark, but it’s the middle of the day, there’s a TV with bluish light, but it’s off and cable less. The windows are covered with sheets keeping all the light out, but a faint line of brightness coming under the door. There is a giant crimson velvet bed that has kind of a rounded edge, a feather comforter and pillow back headboard. I sit on the bed alone in a red cotton slip, shearing boots, and my hair in a half-up bouffant, with a sleep mask at its base pushed up on my forehead. By the side of the bed is a pile of brand-new counter culture books and glossy movies. On the other side is a room service tray of lobster and a punchbowl. I have no worries, nothing urgent to do. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t know what day it is, I have a friend who will call me in two months and wake me up. I could stay here in bed isolated forever. This place is completely cut-off from the world, even though it sits in the middle of the city, isolated in itself by anominity and by the height of the floor. I have a feeling that if I could find this place, I might be okay. Then I think I might finally feel safe, and right. If I had a few free months here, to rebuild, reform, I might get through this okay.
Like a cocoon. I’ll immerge with the perfect version of myself, and I’ll reform. I’ll call people back, answer letters, watch new TV, and find out about current events. And I’ll finally realize what the world is about, and if I really need other people to live, to stay sane.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Morning...
Somewhere in the depths of the city, a genius sits on a rooftop, watching the stars fade, and the sun rise again.
He’s smarter than words can even try to explain, but the idea of beauty alludes him. As hard as he tries, he cannot grasp it.
He stares intently, trying to see beyond the sky, trying to see the importance that it hides. Trying to see what he thinks the dreamers see, metaphors like the stars diamonds, on black velvet sky, or the moon a giant pearl.
But he just can’t.
When he looks at the sky, the stars, the sun, he can only see what they are, what they are supposed to be. Sources of light. Dead, burning rocks echoing their light back to earth. The sun just another star, that will one day die, and take so-called humanity with it.
He knows too much.
He’s seen too much
He’s seen so much more than he’s ever seen.
Alone of the rooftop, he contemplates whether he could actually be alone. He cannot see another living soul out there, just the sky stretched endlessly in front of him, inviting him on a journey he can’t ever take.
He wonders for a minute in the end of the world had come over night while he sat there. As if he is the only person left, he can’t see anyone else. Silly thoughts, he thinks for someone who’s supposed to be so smart.
But then, he hears them.
And all the thoughts, all the secrets, won’t leave him alone even isolated on the rooftop.
He’s smarter than words can even try to explain, but the idea of beauty alludes him. As hard as he tries, he cannot grasp it.
He stares intently, trying to see beyond the sky, trying to see the importance that it hides. Trying to see what he thinks the dreamers see, metaphors like the stars diamonds, on black velvet sky, or the moon a giant pearl.
But he just can’t.
When he looks at the sky, the stars, the sun, he can only see what they are, what they are supposed to be. Sources of light. Dead, burning rocks echoing their light back to earth. The sun just another star, that will one day die, and take so-called humanity with it.
He knows too much.
He’s seen too much
He’s seen so much more than he’s ever seen.
Alone of the rooftop, he contemplates whether he could actually be alone. He cannot see another living soul out there, just the sky stretched endlessly in front of him, inviting him on a journey he can’t ever take.
He wonders for a minute in the end of the world had come over night while he sat there. As if he is the only person left, he can’t see anyone else. Silly thoughts, he thinks for someone who’s supposed to be so smart.
But then, he hears them.
And all the thoughts, all the secrets, won’t leave him alone even isolated on the rooftop.
- Unmask: The Secret Lives Of Superheroes
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Thursday, April 23, 2009
I Think I Deserve This Mood
Loving this song!! Also This is exactely how I feel right now.
PERFECT FIT
By the Dresden Dolls
i could make a dress
a robe fit for a prince
i could clothe a continent
but i can't sew a stitch
i can paint my face
and stand very very still
its not very practical
but it still pays the bills
i can't change my name
but i could be your type
i can dance and win at games
like backgammon and life
i used to be the smart one
sharp as a tack
funny how that skipping years ahead
has held me back
i used to be the bright one
top in my class
funny what they give you
when you just learn how to ask
i can write a song
but i cant sing in key
i can play piano
but i never learned to read
i can't trap a mouse
but i can pet a cat
no i'm really serious!
i'm really very good at that
i can't fix a car
but i can fix a flat
i could fix alot of things
but i'd rather not get into that
i used to be the bright one
smart as a whip
funny how you slip so far
when teachers dont keep track of it
i used to be the tight one
the perfect fit
funny how those compliments can
make you feel so full of it
i can shuffle cut and deal
but i can't draw a hand
i can't draw a lot of things
i hope you understand
i'm not exceptionally shy
but i've never had a man
that i could look straight in the eye
and tell my secret plans
i can take a vow
and i can wear a ring
and i can make you promises
but they won't mean a thing
can't you do it for me,
i'll pay you well
fuck i'll pay you anything
if you could end this
can't you just fix it for me,
it's gone berserk...
fuck i'll give you anything
if you can make the damn thing work
can't you just fix it for me,
ill pay you well,
fuck ill pay you anything
if you can end this
hello, i love you will you tell me your name?
hello, i'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same?
PERFECT FIT
By the Dresden Dolls
i could make a dress
a robe fit for a prince
i could clothe a continent
but i can't sew a stitch
i can paint my face
and stand very very still
its not very practical
but it still pays the bills
i can't change my name
but i could be your type
i can dance and win at games
like backgammon and life
i used to be the smart one
sharp as a tack
funny how that skipping years ahead
has held me back
i used to be the bright one
top in my class
funny what they give you
when you just learn how to ask
i can write a song
but i cant sing in key
i can play piano
but i never learned to read
i can't trap a mouse
but i can pet a cat
no i'm really serious!
i'm really very good at that
i can't fix a car
but i can fix a flat
i could fix alot of things
but i'd rather not get into that
i used to be the bright one
smart as a whip
funny how you slip so far
when teachers dont keep track of it
i used to be the tight one
the perfect fit
funny how those compliments can
make you feel so full of it
i can shuffle cut and deal
but i can't draw a hand
i can't draw a lot of things
i hope you understand
i'm not exceptionally shy
but i've never had a man
that i could look straight in the eye
and tell my secret plans
i can take a vow
and i can wear a ring
and i can make you promises
but they won't mean a thing
can't you do it for me,
i'll pay you well
fuck i'll pay you anything
if you could end this
can't you just fix it for me,
it's gone berserk...
fuck i'll give you anything
if you can make the damn thing work
can't you just fix it for me,
ill pay you well,
fuck ill pay you anything
if you can end this
hello, i love you will you tell me your name?
hello, i'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same?
Well, I'm The King Of Brobdingnag About Now
You know who I miss about now?
The Fool from King Lear. He rocked my world. He just knew what to say, and he was never, ever afraid to say it! Also currently loving the idea of playing Regan. I would so rock that role, I can be bitchy, evil, conniving and seductive... well, oh course YOU know dear mockers.
Gotta say, I love how humour and satire can allow you to criticize even the strictest, off with their heads doctrine, because it makes it lighter and veiled. With a joke, you can say anything, things everyone else knows but is too afriad to say. The joke makes you safe.
This probably isn't a healthy way to feel. But when has mind mindset ever been anything that could be considered healthy or sane, darlings? I'm the girl who recently wrote a list of the 150 books I want to read/buy.
What's also incredibly awesome is how the life of a satirist (such as Mr. Voltaire) reads as much a fabulous story of eccentricity and social criticism, as does thier novels-exile,excommunication, debauchery, affairs, theft! Even artists, my pet example being renaissance painter Caravaggio, who murdered someone, multilated his cheating mistress and used drug addicts, the homeless, and prostitutes as models for saints, get in on the madness and the fever of the creation of art. Its like giving birth to something of meaning, rather then condemming another little angel to this uncertain purgetory of self-destruction.
Welcome back to the self destruction bridgade, safe here at the Ministry of Love. Yes, that's a coupling of perfected self hatred and wanton self destruction, a winning combination, a killer cocktail, Molitov in nature, naturely.
Excuse me for my absense, but I'm just getting back to my old happy-go-lucky self after a real seventh circle of hell cold (how weird is it that everyone wants to ask about swine flu, or test for swine flu, but no one will come right out and say it? its like second grade all over again, and I'm running around pretending to be Hermione, and all waiting for my owl, and its He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! {although I never did finish the last two books....I kinda lost interest})
Lately, I'm so mindless, going through the motions, that everything feels sleepy and eerily unreal, as if it's gone all diseased and blurry around the edges (maybe you have glacoma?)
And that is deep. Right now I am in dire need of some depth.
"There were a selection of tropical fish injected with a special dye that made them glow in various colours. With the club lights down low, they appeared to be glittering sprites moving through the dark water, eliciting delighted gasps from the bevy of young girls, who hadn’t quite shaken off the last remnants of their childhood, however hard they strived."
I have to ask why even in a time that insists equality, even to the point where minorities or discriminatec groups, find themselves seeking superior treatment, a strikng contrast to what they seemed to crave, that a woman with lovers is a slut, while a man with them is just being king. At the same time, the gambling, compulsive shopping, war mongering king is remembered as great, while the Queen is Madame Defecit.
It's A Christmas Miracle, Star!
Signing Off now, Roger Wilco
"'Reality is nothing but a dream we're all having together.''That's deep!'"
- Middlesex, Jeffrey Eudgenies
- Middlesex, Jeffrey Eudgenies
And that is deep. Right now I am in dire need of some depth.
Question: The protag., Calliope in Middlesex (read it! Its family epic meets curiously ambigious gender! Sing O Greek Muses Of Tradgedy!), who has been living as a girl for fourteen years, and then tries to live as a guy (Cal), observes that to walk as a girl, you sway your hips (which as the would be reincarnation of old film goddesses, I certainly do), and as a boy you sway your shoulders. I've been trying to figure out if this is true.
Any observations?
I met Beethoven a few weeks ago. An impersonator (did anybody see the office episode where they get a Ben Franklin impersonator and get him to act all strippery and talk about scandels?- couldn't help thinking of it) came to my history class, danced for us, screamed in various german accents (the only language in which you can threaten I Love You) and called my teacher crazy and called out my principal on his tendency for useless announcements at nausem.
Cool guy... until at the end he shattered the allusion and spoke in his regular everyday voice and introduced himself as George, a struggling actor and dancer (although a Beethoven impersonator might be an interesting character for a book- with a secret BDSM life after hours)
My history teacher is a legend of eccentricity all on his own. He makes history come alive with interactive demos, role playing, music, fun movie clips (he let us watch Marie Antoinette, which happens to be my favourite movie- in class), and his personal acencdotes- particularily memorable is his meeting with Trudeau on a random park bench, where he didn't know who he was talking to and his love of Michaelle Jean. In my fourth period history class, we've made it a game of counting the interuptions- knocks on the door with surprisevisitors (however ungameshow worthy) or announcements calling students down to the principal, or listing skippers. Usually he just tries to talk over them, getting increasingly angry and loud. Frankly, he is as entertaining as the curiosities he teaches.
My history teacher is a legend of eccentricity all on his own. He makes history come alive with interactive demos, role playing, music, fun movie clips (he let us watch Marie Antoinette, which happens to be my favourite movie- in class), and his personal acencdotes- particularily memorable is his meeting with Trudeau on a random park bench, where he didn't know who he was talking to and his love of Michaelle Jean. In my fourth period history class, we've made it a game of counting the interuptions- knocks on the door with surprisevisitors (however ungameshow worthy) or announcements calling students down to the principal, or listing skippers. Usually he just tries to talk over them, getting increasingly angry and loud. Frankly, he is as entertaining as the curiosities he teaches.
Bear, in mind mah-darlings, this is the same man who had us stop the school bus (on a field trip to the ROM and AGO) in the middle of a communter traffic ridden street, and ran down the street after the Mr. Tasti Freeze Ice Cream truck (which by the way are a few of my favourite things). Mere minutes later, he would return with two delectable chocolate vanilla twist cones, for him and the other supervisor, balanced precaroiusly in his hands as he ran like patented Phoebe Buffay running away from Satan (the neighbour's dog). Returning on board the bus, he was greeted by a chorus of premediated and planned slow claps and several thats-just-like-him sighs.
Re-Reading Neil Gaiman's macabre short story book, Smoke and Mirrors, I can't help but compare his PETA story, Babycakes, which suggests that if all the animals disapeared, we would turn to babies, the next most helpless and least vocal population, for food and things like leather, to Jonathan Swift's sartircal essay, A Modest Proposal:For Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland from Being a Burden to Their Parents or Country, and for Making Them Beneficial to the Public, while suggests eating them.
This is the stuff that keeeps a maudwin life interesting,
From the internet, you learn scary things, like the existence of Carebear BDSM fics. But its from insanity that you learn with bated breath, that you actually want to read it. Its all very rule 34. Think of something, the least sexy thing in existence, like a couch or a ficus- got it? Well, the internet has porn of it. And if it doesn't you are now morally obligated to write it.
Ah, the craziness of modern living- its like a cult of anonymous
I'm starting to think I might possibly be Manic Depressive. It would explain a lot, plus it would let me off the hook for so much transgression. But, while i do fit much of the criteria, I can't help but wonder if I'm just being dramatic and oh so typically hypochondric.
I really hate the word angst through it just seems so dismissive, as if my problems that are making me break down and cry and laugh myself into a frenzy at nothing, are just typical growing pains that no one has to worry about. And whenever, I confess, pained to my mother that I think I have a problem, she just asks me if I'm getting my period. Ironically and unintentionally sexist remarks from my feminist mother.
Another day's work in paradise.
"Scarecrow could only blink at the sight, gripping the arms of his chair in tight fists. Such a sweet child. Vandalising his fear factory. Yes. A sweet child. Were crayons water soluble?"
"There were a selection of tropical fish injected with a special dye that made them glow in various colours. With the club lights down low, they appeared to be glittering sprites moving through the dark water, eliciting delighted gasps from the bevy of young girls, who hadn’t quite shaken off the last remnants of their childhood, however hard they strived."
-Yes, she's got issues. The trouble is I'm wallowing in my childhood where i should be casting it off and declaring my independance.
In truth, books are my opiates and have been since I stopped being concerned with how good they tasted (hey! i was a baby!) and cracked them open to read the wonders of Go Dog Go (I like your hat), Little Miss Sunshine (not the movie! Remember Little Miss and Mister Men?) and Ballerina Bunny. I evolved out of bounds, reading both the books my classmates consumbed like Baby Sitter's Little Sister, Full House, Vampires Don't Wear Polka dots and Mary Kate And Ashley Mysteries at the same time as I consumbed Tolstoy, Steinbeck, Godot and increasingly obscure Shakespeare. Now i read anything and everything sometimes guilty pleasures and beach books, sometimes books to snark at, sometimes books to improve my mind, and increasingly, just to let myself laugh. Books are magic in that they really are doors to another world, where you can slip into a characters skin and have adventures and love, where you realize you really aren't so heartbreakingly alone, after all. Yes, I think it was Matilda that I got that from.
"As for the books she picks out for herself, the Bombshell likes an author who writes about someone like her (with compassion, of course). This is not out of vaniety, but rather because she feels misunderstood. Books about women like her teach her something about herself, about how to be herself, although it is important to realize that this is not narcissism but something more complicated and innocent. She adores Jack Kerouac and the all-American convertible driving blondes he meets along the way. She can relate to a man like Sal Paradise or Cody; they express the wanderlust she feels, too, but can't put into words. She is on her own road. "
- The Bombshell Manual of Style, Laren Stover
This is exately true. While I read Girly books, the Sex and The City of the printed word, like Shopaholic, Meg Cabot, Sisterhood Of The Travelling Pants and Rachel Cohn, it is also a clear indicator that I will love something if it has been in Playboy- you know when it was all 60's-70s pseudo intellectual. Case in point: Mailer, Kerouac, Kaftka, Palahniuk.
I am a book androgeny!
Why is something bad, just as wonderful as something good, if you get into the right frame of mind. I really want to sit down with friends, Mike and Ike's shaped like pills, and snark at Valley Of The Dolls.
What if I named myself Lullaby? These days the idea of picking out a new name, a pen name, a performance name, an alias, is endlessly attractive and tempting to me. I wanna be a suicide girl! I think I'm an exhibitionist. I want people to see me. My only modesty is negative body image, everything else is faked. If I didn't find myself fat and ugly, I wouldn't care who saw me naked.
I have to ask why even in a time that insists equality, even to the point where minorities or discriminatec groups, find themselves seeking superior treatment, a strikng contrast to what they seemed to crave, that a woman with lovers is a slut, while a man with them is just being king. At the same time, the gambling, compulsive shopping, war mongering king is remembered as great, while the Queen is Madame Defecit.
Its enough to start a one girl revolution, says poor Marie Antoinette who bore the brunt of this sexism, and does even still in history classes across the globe.
As a true testament to, times they are a changing, The Simpsons got a new HD intro, which incorporates substatntial nostaglia with remembered characters and references to the early family comedy years when the show wasn't trying to copy family guy for a ratings boost.
Thier classic antenna TV, is now a plasma.
Arent't somethings sacred?
Looking through my Ipod, the songs fit into a perfect call and response:
I Wanna Be Sedated
I Want A New Drug
I Want Candy
I Want Something Else
It's A Christmas Miracle, Star!
Signing Off now, Roger Wilco
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Keep It Up, You're Doing Gret ! The City Girl Remix
So.....
I'm sitting here with a gigantic strawberry shaped lollipop...I can just skip ahead now, and pretty much tell you this doesn't end well. Although no crying jags to report thus far today, laughing jags, as always are in high supply. I should be doing homework, but I'm not. Specifically, I should be analyzing King Lear and researching Alexander Pope and Voltaire, but for some truly stupid reason, I'm not.
This was the lost weekend, where I did just about everything there was to do, expect my homework, which is just starting to seem horribly pointless to me. Yes, I admit it. I've fallen prey to the dreaded senioritis. At this point, I'm just trying to stay awake 'til graduation and prom. I mean everything's decribed, I have my university and I have my rockin' prom dress, now I'm just bored, nothing ever happens here.
Except yesturday, I climbed the CN tower (for the second time, cause I'm that awesome). Can you believe it, dah-lings? Me, the crazy child. And yes, I got paid to climd the thing. It pays to work for the health department.
So now I'm feeling pretty tired, and completely unready for school tommorrow. Hellman's Mayonise! I wish I could just fall asleep, but insomnia is a major mindfucker.
The CN tower climb is basically my personal hell. A few flights steps up, my legs start to shake and my knees in my cozy grey sweat shorts start to buckle underneath me...and I'm going down. This is when I feel like I'm dying, and seriously start to consider exactely how out of shape I am, promising myself (as I do just about every night before falling asleep, promising myself that the next day, I'll start the diet and go on the treadmill everyday again, but then never end up doing in the morning- God, I sound old and boring) to get back into my routines.
But then I find some chocolate... and its abandon hope all who enter here.
i'm weak.
So sue me.
Anyway, so about 30 flights up (there's about a 140), I suddenly get a burst of energy, and I'm flying up the stairs four at a time, jumping up and down during the breaks every 5 or so flights, feeling the rubber soles of my red sneakers resounding on the metal landing benaeth me. It's a pretty nice feeling, actually. Also, my voice gets really high and bubbly and I start to act and babble on like a five year old (as I often do if people spend enough time with me- I really don't need to be drunk to act drunk).
So, I end up climbing with two of my friends, one of whom was starting to have an asthsma attack (sidenote: World Asthsma day is next Tuesday! I'll be manning a booth at the Georgetown Mall, where will you be?), and needed us to keep resting in like ten minutes stretches. This was where I proved once and for all that I am a good friend (the best!), because even though I had the energy to go on, I just waited patiently entertaining myself by paying games in my head and yoga breathing.
Well, we quickly gave up on time, and just started to party up the stairwell, playing games, doing yoga on the landings, chatting up the paramedics and our fellow climbers (explaining like every ten steps, what our shirts said and what Denorm means), and then petting someone's seizure detecting dog for a while.
and me, the girl who slips into childishness when in group situations too long? I start screaming the worlds on the encouraging paintings made by elementary school kids that lined the stairwells (save the whales/snow leopards/ pandas {including the anorexic ones}/ owls/ iguanas, With every step you save an animal, and Keep it up you're almost there, and my ultimate favourite, You're Doing Gret! (who's Gret? Is he cute?) {seriously the spelling was as bad as Claudia Kishi- and that's saying something!}) and pretending I was a cheerleader. It was pretty entertaining actually, I realling think I deserve my own show, or at least a youtube show.
My friend ends up being the last person to climb the CN tower, trailing after the cute seizure dog because of her insistance that if she was going to be one of the last people up, she'd be THE last person up.
I love how after climbing all those steps, getting all tired and angry (especially when you think you're done and all the sadists at the welcoming doors congratulate you and stamp your timecard, and then you find out there's another fifteen flights of stairs to slog through), when you get to the top, you suddenly have all this energy, and feel like you could run a Polyester Marathon. That's when I went shopping. I need another pair of shoes, all mine are getting lonely.
And for some insane reason, everyone was afraid of the glass floor (we also tried to pour water through the grating on the observation deck- for future reference: it just makes the cement rim wet). I don't get it, to me its the best thing since sliced bread (but what was before that?), almost as cool as the pistashio in the spumoni (not a deli meat!) ice cream, which is strawberry, chocolate and pistashio we had later at the Old Spagetti Factory (still getting paid- It's a great job!).
Which is the most awesomly kitsch place ever (and you know how devoted to kitsch I am)! There's stained glass windows, caurosel horses, a streetcar you can eat in, tables perfect to reenact La Vie Boheme on, and even a candy store at the front! It's really my kind of place.
Our time on the climb was so ridiculously long, that I won't even post it here (a guy in our group was like the 35 person out of like a thousand. The same guy was later fined/ charged for not buying a train ticket on the way back). Later, when we were wandering around Toronto and Forever 21 (where I spent way too much money for someone who's supposed to be saying for university- but what can I say? I have an addictive personality) shopping our little hearts out, I would turn to her and say, I wonder what my time would have been if I'd done the climb in grade ten, when I was thin. This just makes her laugh, put a hand on my shoulder and say, But you had an eating disorder, Doll. You would have fainted or something.
True...
Other random moments?
Well today some random person said they loved me because I said consquently.
Consquently, I was freaked out.
Later, after not giving a homeless guy money, he damned me and my friend to hell. Because it's not a party without at least one eternal damnation.
Also, another friend of mine after, I was admiring this cherry red motorcycle and wishing I had one, launched into her whole Bella-Jacob-Edward: New Moon thing (...how facinating... Sarcasm sign!). I recieved yet another critcism of my klutziness. Which was ...fun, as always.
I have to say through, I love Toronto. This is my city, I was born here, and at some point I will have my own little Kensington Market apartment over a chinese food resturant and across from a bakery. This is pretty much as much of the future as I have planned other then my journalism career. I love how its like a little bohemian community right in the city. My mother used to live there (after she ran away from home) and one day she took me down there to go to Courage My Love (where I got this awesome 40's dress) , and we went by the little red house she lived in, that was split into four little apartments. After like 20 years, her furniture, the chairs and the dresser that she left behind, where still there moved out onto the front balcony and the stoops.
Awesome. Just awesome.
She also told me about how she lived in the building next to the bar where the Rolling Stones played a surprise show (her friend called to tell her, and she thought he was playing a trick on her), and she could hear them through the walls. Even cooler is the fact that my dad, who was like seventeen at the time was also there, trying to sneak in. But they didn't meet.
I want stories like this! But I never want to give them up to, settle down.
That's my horror story!
Back on topic...
I just love how all my friends are so scared of the city. The bored and raised Milton Lifers who had never been out of town, were freaking out on our vocal class trip to the Opera (La Traviatta with random bondage scenes) afraid that the homeless people would hurt them. Later, they were counting them.
My friend who I was shopping with, is kind of a suburb girl. She dislikes the noise and the rush of the city, and she really doesn't understand how exciting I think it is.
There was a Jamacian guy by the Go Station playing the bongos and wishing everyone luck a sthey passed by. He said May life take you places and may where life takes yiu, be an adventure.
There was also a guy painted in silver glitter paint (Tobias?) pretending to be a Elvis statue and dancing to Hound Dog outside the Eaton Centre. The guy who chalks outside the other Eaton Centre doors was drawing Batman, and people were giving out packs of gum in the street. And the air was full of music from the guy playing the guitar down the road.
It's a magic place.
What a supremely awesome day.
But will I ever do it again? Only time will tell.
-Star
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Resistance To Existance Is Futile
Sometimes I enjoy not making sense.
Today just happens to be one of those days, Aren't you lucky?
Today, when the bell rang, ending my history class and the school day, I looked down at my paper and found that somewhere within that painstakingly long 75 minute stretch, I had scribbled this all over my notes.
I blame Catherine the Great.
What have we become?
We are Oxymorons
I am the sun and the heir
But ugly monsters like him.
The kids are all alright?
They say it like it's true
I really doubt that....
The Queen is thier slave
The girl has dead eyes
The sink overflows
Neopotism is thick in our blood
I don't pity him at all
And I am 1871 and in love with chaos
Which will never fit in fourteen lines
I don't know anything anymore
Forgotten how to ride a bike, to tie my shoe laces tight
And we are going tumbling into hell
If you don't understand Shakespeare,
It's about sex
Deep down it all is
Gone baby's gone
She grew up so well
Am I a Yahoo?
Tell me you do
I'm cut of a different cloth
Sitting in the back row with bubblegum dreamsI'd praise the flanderer for want of funny words
Worship at the altar of love affairs
Find a thousand guys name Adam Smith for a tidbit of intellectual thought
We Bail out the econmy, but not the dead girl sold up river
Nineteen year boys, who sit across from me fight the wars of governments, I don't understand
If I only had a brain
If he only had a heart
If we only had the nerve
I don't even have a home
Fuck this!
I'm getting cheese fries.
I'm so out of here.
I am such a screw up. I can't even write my own messsed up stuff anymore, i have to steal it from songs and passing conversation.
It's a very good thing that, I am a fast copier of notes, or else I wouldn't have anything to show for being in school at all.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm even there at all.....
I don't think, therefore I'm not? That's math I can't even do!
-History's youngest child on Artificial Sweetener.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
No Spelled Y-E-S : (Girl Least Likely To Be) Prom Queen
I'm sorry for being such a bad blogger lately.
But I've just been weirdly busy and randomly tired (at work today, I felt and acted like a little kid, I seriously think that the more I learn, the less I know and the less mature I seem to get)
I'm just going to say, that Sunday I fell in love.
Not with another of my perfectly pale, wide eyed slacker indie boys, but with a dress.
A prom dress, to be exact. My perfect dress, like a movie star dress.
The perfect dress for a "Wow, she grew up" moment, as I desend some random stairs some where.
I never thought my dream dress would be a long turquoise (the colour is actually called capri blue) duchess satin strapless mermaid dress, with a fitted bodice (I love that word- bodice! Like a trashy romance novel- consumed like pastries by some lonely widow). In truth, my favourite part of the dress, is the little blue satin buttons up the back, the one thing constant in my childhood imaginings of wedding dresses.
I am so in love with this dress. It was the first dress I tried on, and the only one of the huge stack of dresses, my mother gave me to try on, that I actually picked out for myself.
And I just knew it had to be the one.
I have always loved that moment, when you're shopping and you find the perfect thing, something that makes you look and feel unbelievably beautiful. The feel good moment, when the feel good music around you swells and you look in the 360 mirror (like something out of what not to wear) and wonder if that beautiful girl with the big crystal blue eyes, the milky skin and the dark wavy hair can possibly be the same ugly little girl you see in the mirror every morning.
But of course, the dressmaker had to ruin the magic by asking if I had a date,
a question which only served to make me laugh, and to come crashing back to earth and reality.
Yeah....right......like anyone would ever love me.
On a happier note,
All I need now, is a quick Kensington Market trip (Courage My Love!) for hyper unique accessories, which is currently set to follow the long awaited (and somewhat dreaded) CN Tower climb on Saturday ( I love how everyone keeps thinking we're climbing up the outside of it).
Wish me luck my Darlings.
Cause I'm just here wishing for you.
But I've just been weirdly busy and randomly tired (at work today, I felt and acted like a little kid, I seriously think that the more I learn, the less I know and the less mature I seem to get)
I'm just going to say, that Sunday I fell in love.
Not with another of my perfectly pale, wide eyed slacker indie boys, but with a dress.
A prom dress, to be exact. My perfect dress, like a movie star dress.
The perfect dress for a "Wow, she grew up" moment, as I desend some random stairs some where.
I never thought my dream dress would be a long turquoise (the colour is actually called capri blue) duchess satin strapless mermaid dress, with a fitted bodice (I love that word- bodice! Like a trashy romance novel- consumed like pastries by some lonely widow). In truth, my favourite part of the dress, is the little blue satin buttons up the back, the one thing constant in my childhood imaginings of wedding dresses.
I am so in love with this dress. It was the first dress I tried on, and the only one of the huge stack of dresses, my mother gave me to try on, that I actually picked out for myself.
And I just knew it had to be the one.
I have always loved that moment, when you're shopping and you find the perfect thing, something that makes you look and feel unbelievably beautiful. The feel good moment, when the feel good music around you swells and you look in the 360 mirror (like something out of what not to wear) and wonder if that beautiful girl with the big crystal blue eyes, the milky skin and the dark wavy hair can possibly be the same ugly little girl you see in the mirror every morning.
But of course, the dressmaker had to ruin the magic by asking if I had a date,
a question which only served to make me laugh, and to come crashing back to earth and reality.
Yeah....right......like anyone would ever love me.
On a happier note,
All I need now, is a quick Kensington Market trip (Courage My Love!) for hyper unique accessories, which is currently set to follow the long awaited (and somewhat dreaded) CN Tower climb on Saturday ( I love how everyone keeps thinking we're climbing up the outside of it).
Wish me luck my Darlings.
Cause I'm just here wishing for you.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Hugs Are A Gateway Drug
"Take me out tonight
Oh, take me anywhere,
I dont care
I dont care,
I dont care
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I havent got one,
da ...Oh, I havent got one
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die"
-There is a Light That Never Goes Out, The Smiths
“I pledge allegiance to United Turtles of America and to the fruit bats of Borne, one planet in the Milky Way, incredible, with justice and black bean burritos for all.”
- Stargirl, Jerry Spinelli
Harry Edward London London Oranges!
Today is a bright new day in the continued saga of Miss Art Nouveau.As the (non existant) devout followers of the Grand Nouveau teachings, may have noticed, my blogger identity has now changed. After so long of being Catcher, I'm starting to wonder what I'm waiting for, who can catch me, who ever would even try
And then, wondering around my basement in my socks, watching Buffy on DVD, I found my old copy of Stargirl, the classic of Young Adult lit about refusing to conform.
The back of the book provacably reads
"She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to a corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and she flew away."
- Stargirl
Yet again, everything I've always hoped someone would say about me when I'm not around. Everything they never will.
The title character, Stargirl Caraway (born Susan) does strange things like dressing in costumes and personas (which I so plan to do), connecting with nature, and random kind actions (pre- Pay It Forward, and Post Secret {which is addictive}), like singing happy birthday to everyone, waving to people in the hall, sending homemade cards and presents for special occcassions (like Porcupine neckties), keeping records on people, and just completely refusing to crae what anyone else thinks of her (until she is sort of forced to, which makes her the most unhappy she's ever been, until she becomes herself again).
Most important, she has the courage to tell the boy she likes, that she loves him, something I may never be able to do.
This book, goes right up there with The Lorax on my classics shelf.
The front pages of my book read a message across time, penned by my childhood self, in case I lost my way. A real gem in my childish, slanted writing, the I's dotted with hearts.
"Don't forget.
You are Stargirl. You are whoever YOU want.
But I'm just stuck on Susan. I try so hard to fit, but I just don't wear normal well. It doesn't suit me. I'm contrainiess, cynicism, hopes, dreams and scandal. I'm one of a million, yet I am only one. Be that person, stop worrying what others think, stop being good, stop the hypocrite. You may not be accepted, but at least you'll like yourself.
For once..."
Clearly, my childhood self was going through some terrible stuff. I complain now about pain and lonliness, but today I can't even remember how hurt I felt then, it feels so distant, it's as if it's a memory from another life. I really haven't changed much where it counts. I'm still me. Somewhere deep inside, I'm still me.
No one can take that away.
Baby.
(sidenote: I've retitled my poetry book, it's now called Artifical Sweetener)
I cannot even begin to explain how much my childhood self loved this book. When my eight year old self first read this, I decided that one day I would be like Stargirl, finally having the courage to be myself, weird and unapologetic for it. As I'm always assuring my ragtag band of misfits (and myself), the idea of normlacy is relative (and throughly boring!!).
What if we're the normal ones, and everyone else is weird?
But I'm still too shy to accept my own ideals, hiding behind my fringe of frizzy hair and my baggy uniform sweater, and a sullen frown. I'm still waiting to be myself, but I have to wonder if I'll ever actually stop, and let myself live.
To quote Stargirl herself, “I’m not my name. My name is something I wear, like a shirt. It gets worn. I outgrow it, I change it.”
So, now I'm Stargirl, to remind myself that I have the power to be remembered, the power to refuse to fit into some lame cookie cutter image of what a girl should be.
Remember, I'm The Art Nouveau Girl, I'm just better than that.
These days, I'm discovering more and more, that nothing of me is truly original, but rather, tiny pieces stolen from each person I have met in my seventeen short years of life. I would be something unique if I only I could just let myself be, rather than wasting my time rambling on in extremely long blog posts about how miserable it is to be invisible (like that Buffy episode with the invisible girl).
The only really unique things about me are my mutations.
I am a genetic freak, but not where it counts, or count possibly be interesting. Slightly webbed toes, a Gene Simmons tongue that I can reach up to my nose (if I wanted to I could actually pick it with my tongue, but of couse i wouldn't), and a heart shaped birthmark (which I kind of love-actually) on the back of my right upper thigh.
Official Segway.......
There are two anthropological experiments I want to do :
1. Asking random strangers I met in my daily life, to tell me a story and then recording them into a book, which would reveal profound differences between people and how they see the world. What is most important to each person, revealed by thier answear to the simple question: tell me a story...(although, most people wouldn't cooperate., which is really sad...)
2. Inspired by an episode off my brand new season one Supernatural DVDs (a blast from the past, as I watched it religiously in grade nine, and then somehow fell out of it)(also, Dean Winchester is so freaking hot!!! How did I not notice this in grade nine?), the episode with the ghost guy that adapts with the retallings of his legend and becomes something new: The idea of starting a new urban legend, like renting out a rundown house and making it look haunted, and then spreading the legend and watching how it changes with retellings and is altered over time to suit the morals and values needed at the time.
Like a game of broken telephone.
Some days, you just want to run. Just want to get into the car or on a train, and just drive until there's nothing left, just drove until you're anywhere but here (if you lived here, you'd be home by now) . I'm so aimless and bored and yes, lonliness snuck in there too, as always.
And today yet again, I came out of the book closet, when it was again exposed (this time to my entire writer's craft class) that I've conqured the literary hurdle, that is War and Peace. I really don't know why everyone is so impressed, though.... It was just four snowy days in January of grade ten, one weekday, three a weekend and PA day, of shuffling around through work , to and from the Regional building, with the huge 1,450 page book in hand and reading it when ever I had the chance (mostly in and out of taxis). Nothing to be impressed over. I barely remember it, but I remember it fondly.
I love you...
And as always, more later.
- Stargirl
P.S. remind me to get a tape recorder sometime, and catch some evidence on my sister's dark side. Truly I think this is demonic possession at work, either that, or pure unadulterated evil.
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