November 27, 2009

You ever have one of those nights where you can feel the universe breathing? You know it’s a living thing filled with intricacies and complexities and the most beautiful balance of good and bad. Tonight’s one of those nights for me. I was sitting here trying to think of a good concept for my short story assignment for Dave’s class when I just started thinking about the universe. I thought about how many people I see in a day and how many of the faces in my classes I actually see, really take a look at. I was talking to Joe last week about the quiet, shy kids in my classes. The ones that never speak and I only find out their names days before the semester ends. I told him I barely even knew they existed. Then he said something that really struck me. He said, “Oh no… I always notice them. I don’t always know their names but I always notice them.” Tonight I thought about how many times I have actually noticed a person before. I can only think of two times that I was consciously aware of seeing a person. This made me sad because I love people. I love this universe and this life so very, very much. I love being such a tiny piece of it and knowing that even though I’m so small I am a chamber of infinite possibilities. I love every tear and every giggle that has laced my life thus far. It’s all so very beautiful when you think about it. The infiniteness of it all. I want more of it. I think we all do. I think this is why people get drunk or do drugs or believe in God. I think we all just want to feel a little more connected to one another. This is why it is so much easier to kiss someone when you’re plastered than when you’re completely sober. Everyone wants connection, we’re just afraid to admit this. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. The next time the train is crowded I will give my seat up to the person closest to me so they will know that even a stranger is willing to take them into consideration. The next time I’m in a dinner at 3am I will make the wait staff let me wash my own plate so they can relax a little. The next time a homeless man asks me for change I will ask them to tell me a good story in exchange for it, so they feel a little more dignified and I feel a little less used. I want to start living. I want to start doing things that validate my existence. I don’t know if this will bring me closer to God, but I know it will bring me closer to myself; and that’s really all I want. I just want to know that I exist for a reason.

November 23, 2009

This is what we most commonly refer to as a crush. He is quite literally one of those hidden little doohickeys you find in the jewelry box stuck behind the Christmas decorations of Grandma’s attic. Such a rarity. Such an exciting thing to find; yet after you find it, you don’t really know what to do with it. You want to hold it close to your face and examine it for a few hours, but you know you’re not supposed to waste your time on such pointless frivolities. You have other things that require your attention. Who cares though, right? You stare at it anyways. You don’t know what it is about this newfound item, but it’s magnetic. You can’t tear yourself away from it. Your better judgment tells you to approach with caution. It’s probably made of lead and coated in asbestos. It might be a block of uranium, or a concentrated mass of something with a twelve thousand year old half life. Aside from being lethal, it might just be straight up weird- like the dead skin that falls off a baby’s newly tied naval. Who knows? Grandma could be a freak like that. Yet the butterflies in your stomach are still there whenever you pass by him. He could be horribly abusive or incredibly disconnected from reality. He could turn out to be in a vegetative state when it comes to relationships. Yet you’re intrigued; and intrigue always outweighs better judgment. That’s what he does to your brain, clouds your sense of judgment. Suddenly you realize you can’t get enough of him, even at his lamest moments. Suddenly you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You lose your sense of reality and don’t even mind it all that much. In reality nothing changes; you just shift your context to frame itself around him, but the world continues to spin on its axis- only this time, he’s in the center of the universe. It’s a game. Everything about these types of situations is a game. There is no such thing as no-pretense. Both parties draw cards from a mystery deck hoping the universe will tilt itself in their favor. Most of the time this game is nine times longer than Monopoly and the players just get bored and give up or move on. However, every once in a while they stick around just long enough to draw the last card and make the first move. In the event of this rare occurrence, both parties often realize their dedication to each other and the vast potential of their predicament, and suddenly the gravity of the situation strikes them. This is what we most commonly refer to as a crush.

November 22, 2009

It's been days since I’ve written anything at all. Not even a Stream of Consciousness to report on. I haven't been home. My life has been spiraling out of control and I'm still trying to figure out if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Joanna says I needed this. I can see her point. Last night was so great. I saw Chris and Carolyn again. I never realize exactly how much I miss them until we all reunite again and it suddenly hits me that I love them very much. I'm glad we all still make the effort to see each other. I wonder how many other people from my high school keep up with their group of friends. It seems like graduation was just yesterday, but by May we'll all be pushing Year Three of University. Time does some strange things. Time changes everything and sometimes it changes absolutely nothing. I can't figure out if I want everything in my life to change or if I want nothing in it to change. I go through moods where I want to be a new person, someone totally different. Last night I told Kristen I wanted to drink until I wasn't myself any more. Then I got really sad sitting in the dark. That hookah was really strong. I drank a lot and smoked a lot and ended up eye-to-eye with my dinner two hours after having eaten it. This didn’t even bother me. I didn't sleep much this weekend. I'm really glad I'm in a manic state because I don't feel very tired. I'm really glad I have the desire and motivation to see my friends. Although I make stupid mistakes because I feel indestructible and young, I'd much prefer the mania to the depression. I hate the depression. I hate the self loathing and the lack of motivation. The depression rots my heart. The mania is all in my head. It takes away the bumpers on the lane of life. It adds character to my motionless husk. The depression just kills me slowly. I watched a documentary on a man living with bi-polar disorder. He preferred the manias because they made him feel alive. I understand his point. The only downside of the mania is the memory loss and the attention deficit problems. I can't focus on anything or remember much of anything either. I don’t care though. I don’t care about anything. Memory and focus would require me to slow down. I don't want to slow down. I want to livelivelive. When the angel of death knocks on my door I want to be able to say "Go ahead. The only thing I haven't done yet, is die."

November 18, 2009

When I was a kid, one of my biggest fears in life was getting separated from my mother by the subway doors. I’d grown up watching full sized adults struggle to squeeze into and out of the train cars, while wrestling their briefcases, jackets, and scarves from the closing doors. Naturally, when it came time to get on or off a train, I stuck to my mother’s leg like white on rice. Always terrified of being left behind on the platform or, worse yet, the train. To this day, I feel a bit pf panic rush through me when I find that I am boarding a train with groups of people. Even when I’m alone, I’m extra cautious of my timing. Of course I’ve been caught by the closing doors many times in my life. Of course I’ve wrestled my belongings from their mouth. Of course I’ve had them slam in my face just before squeezing through. It’s no longer as traumatic once you’ve lived through it and survived; however, even after 19 years of it, I still feel a tinge of fear or empty anticipation. Maybe fear is something that one never learns to shake. The countries of the world train their secret army units to learn to cope with fear in order to make them more clear-headed when faced with battle pressure. Fear is the most basic instinct. It’s most closely connected with self-preservation. Fear means adrenaline, adrenaline means impulse, impulse means primitive. I’ve grown up fearful of everything from train doors to invisible storybook gods. I’ve grown up afraid of rules and their consequences. I’m tired of feeling afraid. I think it’s time for me to stop caring about the timing and just take a leap of faith. I’m tired of rationalizing all of my thoughts and always pushing my heart aside. Our heart does a lot more thinking than our brain, really. Our brains function on fear and hunger- primitive topics. Our hearts, though, are where we experience the world and perceive it. Everything is rooted in the heart. Especially love. In two days I have to make a very hard decision about love. I’d be stupid to make the decision based on the rationalizations of my brain. I can’t let the fear control me. The train doors may start closing but you can always put your foot between them, and as long as your foot is there the doors won’t close; and as long as the doors don’t close, the train doesn’t move and you don’t have to worry about getting left behind. You just have to get over the fear of putting your foot between them. It may hurt a little. You might even bruise, but in the end you're okay. In the end, you're perfectly fine.

November 17, 2009

I wish things were easier. Dave talked to all the Creative Writing majors today about how he’s pushing 30 and still not anywhere close to being financially comfortable. This is why I’m not concentrated in Creative Writing, but rather in Secondary English Education. I’m sure it’s romantic to live the role of the starving artist; but it’s just not where I want to be in life. I don’t think I could ever just sit around hoping to strike it big. I’ve learned that one needs to be way more proactive about things. I want to do it all. I want to conquer all three fields of English. I want to work in publishing, write on the side, and eventually be a lecturer at a university or something. I know this sounds idealistic but I don’t see why it can’t be done. I’ve always been good at playing multiple roles. I adapt to things quickly. I just want someone to take me seriously for once. Lately it doesn’t really feel like anyone’s taking me seriously. Everyone assumes I’m an idiot. The other day Patrick even said the words “…though I don’t think you’re smart enough for that.” to me. I can’t remember what we were talking about but that was really rude and uncalled for. Especially considering I'm sitting pretty on a 4.0 GPA and an application into the Honors English Program. Not to mention the constant stream of emails I keep getting fromt he English Department, begging me to work as a paid tudor at the Writing Center. So Fuck you. Just cause I don't talk about it, doesn't mean I'm an imbacile. Lately, Creative Writing has just been making me feel really insecure and inferior. The workshops stretch me thin. So what if it’s not punctuated correctly? Didn’t it make you feel anything? The chronic analysis of my writing is pushing my boundaries of comfort. I know I should just suck it up because it's bullshit anyways, but I think I’m having an identity crisis of some sort. Things have been weird lately. I think I'm having a mixed mood episode because I want to die but at the same time I can't eat or sleep and I just feel really energized all the time. I really need medication. I've been saying this for 4 solid years now. I really need to stop putting things off. I'm just afraid no one will take me seriously. I'm also afraid that nothing will work and I'll be crazy forever. I can't center my thoughts... or myself for that matter. Ugh, whatever.

November 16, 2009

Sometimes I wonder which of us will get married first. I think it will be Carolyn. I mean that's always been a quite real possibility. Also, so far she's the only one who's been in a serious relationship before. The rest of us are just killing time. The girl that sits next to me in grammar is married. She got married at 19. Said her husband's name is Conrad and they didn't move in together until after the wedding. I can't imagine not living together beforehand. I couldn't do that. I'm too anal about details to be okay with small petty stuff like not refilling the ice tray. That would cause a divorce in my household. Or maybe it wouldn't? I guess I forget that when there is love, nothing else matters. Everything falls to the wayside. Love is so baffling to me. I found out today that after I join the Honors program I'll have to write a 25 page thesis on literary analysis. I should write about love. I could crank out 25 pages on the thematic analysis of love. I would include charts and graphs too. This is reminding me of a Death Cab for Cutie song. I can't recall which one. I lost the Transatlanticism CD a while ago; but today I found my copy of 'In Rainbows' by Radiohead. I also found "Nightwood," the book I've been looking for for a week. My memory's been terrible lately. I've been really terrible lately. I've don't eat and I'm not hungry. I don't sleep and I'm not sleepy. I haven't done any school work and I'm not worried. It feels like I'm not in control, yet at the same time, I'm fully in control. It feels like there are two people living inside of my body. One of them is always full of energy and ready to gogogo. The other is always sad and just wants to lay down and die. Both of them are always butting heads. Neither of them has been in love before. I need love to mellow me out and liven me up. I also need a date to Carolyn's future wedding ;]

November 15, 2009

Sometimes I think we’re a Ghost Generation. Mostly because I feel like when people look back on us in a few decades, there won’t be anything memorable about us. One could argue technology and Obama; but that was really our parents' doing. I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel like those things belong to us. We'd also be a Ghost Generation because there are few of us actually trying to start a movement. Majority of people are content in their Taylor Swift music and their “See no Evil, Hear no Evil, Speak no Evil” approach to politics. The minority that is actually willing to argue and fight and make an impact are essentially ghosts. Gertrude Stein coined the term the “Lost Generation” in reference to the people that lived through the First World War and lived their lives disillusioned and lost. I wonder what Gertrude Stein thinks of our generation. I wonder if it rings a bell of familiarity for her. Sometimes I wonder if we’re not just all carbon copies of the 20s & 30s Lost Generation. I feel like I’m friends with Hemingway. I feel like I used to go to high school with Matisse. Ezra Pound called me earlier. He was stuck in traffic. I just left John Dos Pasos a wall post on facebook. I just see a lot of potential here. There seems to be potential pouring out through the pores of everyone I know. So much art. I wonder if this is because I’m a hipster. (I won’t even lie right now. As much as everyone I’m friends with would deny it, we’re all hipsters. Though, through no fault of our own.) I know there are some hipsters who try really hard to stay pop culture savvy and sharpen their pretentious words in the dark; but there are some of us who are just in it for the love of it. Some of us actually love literature and quote Faust free of arrogance. Some of us really do understand Duchamp's conceptual art without needing wikipedia! My photography teacher always used to talk about his art and everyone would call him arrogant. I think that’s just a job hazard when you're an artist. If you don’t believe in yourself, if you can’t sell your image to your own brain, no one’s going to care about you. You’re just going to be a ghost to the world. I think people should stop studying economics and law, and learn to be real salesmen before all of us really do become a Ghost Generation.

November 14, 2009

Sometimes you really want to kiss a person but you just can’t. That’s the worst. That’s a terrible kind of hunger. There have been many boys (and girls) in my life that I’ve wanted to kiss and never did. Sometimes I still think about these people. I hope they’re all well. I hope someday the universe lets them know I still think about them. That sounds really stupid to say. Whatever. I guess I say a lot of stupid stuff. Actually I think the stupid thing is to NOT say the things you want to say. Like: I’d love to tell her that I’m pretty pissed off at her for not calling me yesterday. I’d love to tell him that I’m not that excited to have class together next semester. I’d love to tell her that I have a terrible crush on her boyfriend. Imagine if we all just spoke our minds freely all the time. I guess that’s what poets do. I guess the whole point of poetry is to say that which you are afraid to say. Jack always talks about “vulnerability with teeth.” He’s right. Vulnerability can knock a person on their ass. No one expects it. In today’s hard world no one expects to be told the truth. No one expects to receive any genuine smiles or hugs. Everything is plastered in this façade. I have a lot that I’d love to share with people. I’d love to tell Frankie that the night he gave me those small green stars, I kept them attached to my book bag via safety pin for months. I’d also like to tell him that I stalked his livejournal. I’d like to tell my mother that sometimes she makes me feel like I don’t exist. I’d like to tell Joanna that I’m scared we’re drifting apart again. I’d like to tell Sam to slow down and not live life so quickly. I’d appreciate their honesty as well. I miss being a child and having it be okay to speak my mind. Like how my kid cousin once told me that I was “gross.” Though a vague remark, it was sincere and for that it was appreciated. I’d like to be able to tell my American Studies professor that her 10 page term paper assignment is “gross.” I’d like to be able to hold a stranger’s hand on the train. I’d like to be able to kiss him and I’d like for him to be able to kiss me right back.

November 13, 2009

Ok here goes another one. I don’t really have a set goal this time. Well, I rarely have a set goal any other time. I guess it’s not that bad though. Some of the most famous, richest, greatest people that have ever lived never really had a goal either. I guess that’s the ultimate form of ‘thinking outside of the box.’ Goals are just caps, really. If you think about it, they’re restrictions. They’re good to have but some of us would be much better off if we shot past our imaginations’ limits. It’s like how people tell you that the sky is the limit, when there is a whole universe that exists around our stupid sky. In the private study rooms, on the fourth floor, of my school’s library there are many words of wisdom written on the walls. The bit about the limitations of the sky is on there. It’s funny what people write on walls. Mostly they draw phallic symbols or write the word “fuck.” I never understood the big deal behind the world “fuck.” Actually, I don’t understand how any word could be taboo. People are strange. They make up a whole language only to censor parts of it. I’ll bet you the person who coined “fuck” or any other curse word was just like me. Always trying to break out of the normalcy, to reach beyond the sky. To not only think outside of the box, but outside of the room the box sits in. I wish I knew more people like this. Everyone around me is quite content in their daily grind. They all have goals. I don’t want to have any goals. I don’t want to live with my head in the future anymore. I want to live for the present because I might get hit by a bus tomorrow. Today while I drove past the storage warehouse I thought about this. About how I’m going to start living in the moment and not caring about things as much. I also thought about how I’d love to live on an Indian Reservation for a year or two. I want to leave here. I want to see a sunset. I want to speak to the old and for once have them tell me that it’s okay not to have any goals as long as I keep my head high enough to see the sunrise.

November 12, 2009

“Dear moon, have you ever heard a song that made you want to die?” This is the last line of one of Shira Erlichman’s poems. The poem is sort of written like some strangely coherent Stream of Consciousness of a seven year old child. The first time I heard this poem I cried. I cried because in it, Shira talks about how only she and her family speak Hebrew, and how there are roaches in their apartment. I speak Polish. There are roaches everywhere. Mostly I cried because sometimes I hear songs that make me want to die. They are inside of me. I guess we all have reasons for wanting to die. Tonight I sat with them on a metal bench outside the cafeteria and listened to them talk about their lives. “How many times have you tried to kill yourself?” They asked me. I have never wished so strongly to not have an answer to a question. “Three.” “Wow. I feel better then. I’ve only tried once.” “Oh really? I can count nine times since I was 12.” We all have different reasons for wanting to die. Sometimes we don’t even know those reasons. Sometimes those reasons are far removed from the life we currently live. They are just scars from worse times. Scars never go away. I would know. My body is a cutting board. I am hard and made of wood. You can not split me open. I can’t even split myself open. It was cold as we sat outside on the metal bench. He flicked his cigarette and looked in my eyes as he spoke. We all have different reasons. In that moment I wanted to hug them to me. I love them so deeply. I love this life so deeply. I feel like I say this often, but nothing ever changes. Maybe I don’t really love anything at all. Maybe I am just thirsty for something that won’t ever exist. Maybe I should just die? We all have different reasons for wanting to die. There is a lump in my throat right now. It is as big as the moon’s fat face. I don’t want to die. Sometimes it just feels like I have to. Sometimes I wonder if the moon feels this way too. Sometimes I wonder why things just won’t change for any of us.

November 11, 2009

Today I watched True Life: I’m moving to New York City. I hate New York City. Everyone here has a dream. Everyone here is good at something or on their way to being good at something. Cory’s band, Sketchnote is so sick. I have no doubt in my mind that some label will snatch them right up eventually. Cory’s also really good at PR. He knows everybody who is everybody (at least in the underground scene.) He’s good friends with Zach’s who is a member of Team Blackout. They record in the CCNY studios together sometimes. Kristen’s auditioning to be the drummer for Communication Corporation. Carolyn’s at NYU working her ass off for a degree in journalism. She knows she’s going to Columbia for grad school; and with an education like that she’ll probably buy out the NY Times eventually. Michelle’s sort of in limbo with her photography but what great artist didn’t go through that phase? She’s good, too. I know she’ll end up doing something awesome. Michelle also knows half of Brooklyn and 90% of Westchester. She’ll be fine. I always bump into the mariachi band on the 1 train. They play so beautifully. On the platform of the 4,5 and 6 trains there is a 12 year old boy who can play the meanest Flight of the Bumblebee I’ve ever heard on a crappy Casio keyboard. Dude in Central Park beat-boxes as he plays the flute. The cats in Union Square got b-boying down to a science. Everyone here knows their goals. Everyone here has their eye on the prize, sees the light at the end of the tunnel. Even if they don’t all make it, at least they tried. Me? I don’t feel like I’ve tried anything. I don’t feel like I know what I want. I’m not a writer. I don’t understand grammar. Akku is a writer. He carries a tiny black notebook with him wherever he goes.

November 10, 2009

Dave had us practice satire today. He told us to write a letter of support to something we truly hate. Akku wrote about terrorism. He read his piece and it was incredibly surreal. He lived it. He talked about the killings and the fear and the strain in one’s family. Cashette grew up in Israel, she knows, too. This is what I love about the city. People here know life. People here have lived through things I can’t even fathom. Emma wants me to transfer to Hollins in Virgina but I don’t think I could do it. I couldn’t survive without the MoMA in my backyard. How would I ever learn anything without kids like Akku or Cashette in my classes? I’m sure Hollins has some interesting people. Who isn’t interesting when you think about it? Even Bill O’Riley has a back-story that I’m sure I’d appreciate and maybe even relate to. Who knows why people are the way they are? Some of us are raised with white flags in our palms and never fight for anything. My mom is like this. In my home she yells and screams and you’d never think she was a push-over, but in the real world she’s never stood up for herself. I think this is why she comes home with this blood-thirsty intent to control everything; because in reality she has control over nothing. Some of us were born with boxing gloves on, and can’t take them off even if they try. Andrea Gibson is one of these people. In her poems she talks about throwing her fists in boys faces and beating up the neighborhood bullies. I used to get bullied in school. I used to sit quietly and take it, then go home and cry about it into my pillow. Today the lady in the humanities department called me lazy for not inquiring about class schedules sooner. I smiled and called her lazy right back for not being competent at her easy ass job: typing class codes into a computer screen. If I have to take it, you bet your ass I’ll give it right back. Always with a smile. You can have your nasty ass attitude. I’ve gotten damn good at satirizing this life. I grew up in New York after all.

November 9, 2009

Dave, my writing teacher spit verses in class two weeks ago. He says he grew up on hip hop. Taught us the poetic meter in a Black Star song. Tum, Ti, Ti, Ti, Tum. Apparently there’s a formal way to “speak meter” in poetry. Kristen speaks drum. Ba, Da-Ga, Da-Ga. I don’t speak those languages. I realize I don’t really speak the language of words or music at all. I don’t think those languages are verbal. They speak through emotions and feelings, not phonetic sounds. My grammar professor has a doctorate in linguistics. She talks a lot about structure and form. She says content is worthless. Maybe in grammar. Not in art. Today two ladies on the train were talking about how text messaging is going to lead to the death of written English. LOLs, BRBs, and TTYLs are taking over. We might as well be reverting back to hieroglyphics. I don’t think this is the death. This city’s streets need more signs of life, anyways. Not all change is bad. Language is alive and growing. We don’t speak Shakespeare. Our great, great grandchildren’s children won’t speak like we do in the Millennium Years. I don’t know what they’ll speak but I know one thing… a Van Gogh will still be a Van Gogh and Shakespeare will still be Shakespeare. The language of art is transcendental. And someone in every century has broken down listening to a song.

November 8, 2009

Ferris Bueller was on to something, man. Sometimes I wish I could just clock out of reality and spend the day wandering around a big, brand new city with my good friends and a cherry red Porsche. They were in Chicago. The first time I ever saw the Sears Tower I was five years old. That was the year I met my mother’s mother for the very first time. My grandmother’s boyfriend, Tom gave me a baseball. It was heavy and hard to throw. I preferred my Barbies. The second time I saw the Sears Tower, I was 13. I saw it from the backseat of an old Ford Escort whilst sitting next to a twenty two year old man who was supposed to become my half brother. My mom never married the Chicago man. They broke up because she bought him a pair of silk underwear with lip decals on them. She also once called him by the wrong name. We were by the water in downtown Chicago that day. I remember watching a ferry drift left while my mom ran right. I remember standing very, very still. That summer I took a road-trip through the Midwest. I saw Mount Rushmore, the Badlands, The Crazy Horse Memorial, and the St. Louis Arch. That summer I also saw The Sears Tower. I would like to go back to Chicago alone, or perhaps with two good friends and a cherry red Porsche. This time I would like to see The Sears Tower without worrying about meeting strange, new men. This time, I think I would like to just see the Sears Tower.

November 7, 2009

Isn't it ironic how no body ever answers their phone when you're really in the mood to talk to someone, but they call you at the most inconvenient times. Like when you're sitting in the library and forget to turn your ringer off. Or when you're on the road and don't notice the cop coming up in your blind spot. Or when you fall asleep after tossing about in your bed ceaselessly for an hour. Yeah friends are good for messing things up, creating the splash, and taking away from the anticipated monotony of life, in both the best and worst of ways. I spent the past 2 months out with my friends- partying, hanging out, going to art exhibits and shows, etc. Tonight I sit alone in my room writing in some experimental blog. It's a change of pace that's literally been driving me mad. I've been bored. I've had too much time to sit and think about all the things I hate. I've been manic and pacing frantically trying to claw my way out of this apartment, looking for all kinds of reasons to get away or step outside. It's disheartening. No one's answering their phone. Come to think about it... I never answer my phone on a Saturday night either. I guess karma is a lot like a hungry lion, or a wasp nest, or the Wu-tang Clan. It ain’t nothing to fuck with. Damn.

November 6, 2009

Winston’s party starts in half an hour. Facebook keeps notifying me of everyone’s RSVPs. Apparently a rooftop harlem band show attracts indie kids like moths to a flame. What the fuck doesn’t attract indie kids like moths to a flame? Maybe it’s just always opposite day for them. Maybe you just have to try your hardest to be just like everyone else in order to really be original. I guess I just don’t know how I feel about it all. I’m not going to the party. I decided to stay in and write a poem to a boy I don’t technically know. It sounds like a stupid decision but it isn’t; because I’m tired of being drunk and high and always doing things to make other people think I’m some cool kid. I’m sure Winston’s band is good but tonight I’m content with Pharrell on my Lastfm. Whatever, I suppose the coolest kids are just N.E.R.Ds anyway. I don’t really know how to focus myself right now. I’ve been having issues with this all day long. I’ve been pretty bored all day long. I just took some pictures for Michelle. She gave me a shirt she made in her screen-printing class and asked me to take pictures in it for her. Ten minutes into my art project my mother started yelling from the living room and I got angry and threw the camera at the wall. The shutter won’t close now. The eye is open. My third eye won’t close. I can’t ever seem to get my brain to shut up. I’m so tired of the white noise. Maybe it’s time to turn the volume up on Pharrell….yup.

November 5, 2009

The Yankees won the World Series last night. My mom stayed up to watch the finale. My mom doesn’t even stay up to finish her Danielle Steele movies, and those are really important to her. Joanna and I stopped liking baseball when we discovered soccer. I still like the Yankees but not as a baseball team, just as a symbol of my childhood. As kids Joanna and I used to wear our Yankee caps sideways. That was back when Matt, Dominic, and David used to tease us for being girls. They stopped teasing us the year we won the talent show. We wore our Yankee caps sideways that day. I had a crush on Martin that year. So did Talia, but Talia didn’t shower. She also didn’t like the Yankees like Joanna and I did. She also couldn’t dance like Joanna and I could. To this day I think Joanna is the only white friend I have who can booty drop at the drop of a hat. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up listening to Destiny’s Child. I was the first kid on the playground to wear one leg of my sweats rolled up. I was the first kid on the playground to master the C-Walk. Then someone told me that was a gang sign and I stopped. That was the year Joanna and I started watching soccer and stopped wearing our Yankee caps sideways. That was the year the Yankees lost the World Series for the first time in a long time. That was also the year I read my first Danielle Steele novel.

November 4, 2009

I’ve been listening to Bob Marley all day. There’s something exceptionally beautiful in the simplicity of his words, and of the seriousness of his message. Sometimes I wish I loved more than I do. Sometimes I wish I could just hug a stranger or two because I think people need hugs a lot more often than they are willing to admit. I wish I was a child. Children understand things. They speak the language of kindness fluently. The small boy on the bus understood that. This is why he smiled and waved goodbye to the man that kept him from losing his balance when the driver stopped short at a light. Children understand a lot more than we are willing to admit. I don’t understand why everyone is so afraid to admit things. Why the essence of being human is slowly becoming a taboo. I don’t understand much, but I think about a whole lot. I get tired of thinking. Sometimes in my sleep I can hear my thoughts. They are the background music to my dreams. They are alive inside of me. They are just like children. Sometimes I think they, too, understand much more than I give them credit for. I wonder if they will make it in this world. I wonder if I will make it in this world. Most of the time I can feel death breathing down my neck; but then there are days where Bob Marley is on replay and I remember that there is such a thing as love. On these days I feel at peace. On these days I feel like a child with a plethora of knowledge that I, myself, don’t quite understand. One day I might, but for now my belly is filled with love, and for now that is just enough for me to make it to tomorrow.