All Souled Out

January 18, 2010

2010-01-18T01:02:00.001-08:00

He wore a green polo the first day I (re)met him. At home, sitting on the old ugly flower print sofa I told him that he looked like my mother. This was a lie but I felt it was an obligatory statement. The next morning we watched Jerry Springer while he made us breakfast. I remember it being very easy to talk to him and thinking this was odd because it's never been very easy for me to talk to anyone. Its seems like all of these memories are from so long ago. I guess 6 years is a long time. It's funny how much changes when you look back on the past, but how nothing ever seems to change when you examine your present. I wonder what this moment will look like six years from now. I wonder if I'll be happy, if I'll be living in this country or if this world will be nothing but a series of broken rocks floating through the universe. I can't center my thoughts lately. Something is very,very wrong inside of me. There was a man who turned into a woman in my dream earlier today. He spoke the most beautiful poem and I cried. I woke myself up with my sobs. I just remember being very, extremely sad. I remember feeling like I was looking into a mirror and watching all this potential die. Everything around me feels like it's dying. I don't want to die but there is something very, very wrong inside of me. I wish it was I who was boarding that airplane on the 29th, not my uncle. Everyone is always moving farther and farther away from me. Even the man in my dreams who became a girl who spoke the beautiful poem. Even he has left me.

January 15, 2010

2010-01-15T02:03:00.000-08:00

Balance. We often overlook the importance of balance. We become wrapped up in our side of things and rarely are we placed in situations that spark our awareness of the opposite; but as the physics I never studied, dictates: "for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction." Conservatives believe that God created the world. Liberals ascribe to the notion of evolution and science. I've been told that there is no happy medium. I beg to differ. To me, God is science and science is God. How is this possible?... Easy. Through balance. While I've always struggled with the notion of God as a bearded man in the clouds who has a son and at one point impregnated a virgin, I also can't fathom how people just cease to exist after death. (Afterall, energy can not be destroyed.) I think we're all just fabrics in a giant quilt. We like to tell ourselves that we're dominant over this world and this universe, but I think we're just small parts of a greater picture. We're just here to establish balance. Some of us hang left, some of us hang right... but we're all essentially complimentary opposites. We are black & white- polar but paired. People have always asked "if there is a God, why does He let such bad things happen to such good and innocent people?" I think the question is valid but flawed in its logic. If we think of the universe and the stream of events that make up life as a bigger picture, we realize it's filled with lots of bad and lots of good. For every machine gun patent, there is a patent on a new vaccine. For every war there is a steady increase in general global population. For every loss there is a gain. I don't think God is as one-sided as most people make him out to be. I think God is balance. This Higher Power that we all long for is both Satan and Christ, wrapped in one. Now, I don't know if this is written in a mathematical formula that runs the entire universe. Maybe God is a series of patterns constructed of complimentary opposites? I just know that we are so often at war with each other over opinions and personal preferances. We shouldn't be killing one another over politics or religion; because esentially we're all here to create a balance and keep the gears of this universal machine turning. Esentially, we're all here for each other, and none of us are here for ourselves.

January 11, 2010

2010-01-11T09:53:00.000-08:00

We all want to leave. We all want to grow up too fast and get away from everything that reminds us of the children we can no longer be. Yet sometimes it seems that while everyone is running away from the receeding tide, I'm madly chasing after it. I know I can't change things. I'm not even sure that I'd know how to change them even if I could; but I feel like I've been jipped. I feel like this life still owes me something. Every day I wake up, I can't help but be a little more bitter about things; and I'm trying, I'm trying so very hard, to undo this and work against it. I am always double checking myself, making sure I'm keeping to my borders, and yet I'm losing this battle. The worst part is, I don't even know who/what I'm battling. It's like swinging angry fists at the wind; it's getting to be nothing but a waste of energy. I want to be a poet but I don't know how to do this. I'm not going to be approached out of the blue and offered a paying job as a writer. I want to fucking find myself already. Growing up is an awful lot like a Chinese finger trap. The harder I pull to break away from things, the more impossible it becomes to shake them. I've been having nightmares for a whole month now. Death is always present in them. The dead seem to be trying to tell me about something; but I'm not Joseph, I don't have a technicolor dreamcoat, and at this point I'm not even sure if there's anything left of me that is worth saving. I have no idea what to do about it. I have not the slightest clue about where to go from here. I know that here isn't where I want to be, but something tells me there isn't it either. My arms are tired. They hurt from constantly pulling at the tug-of-war rope, from holding my weight, and from cradling my heavy heart. I am tired. I am just so tired of it all.

January 8, 2010

2010-01-08T23:47:00.000-08:00

I feel like I am scared. I am scared of how sad I have become. People always say it's not a problem until it begins to interfere with your life. Like, it doesn't matter if you drink 3 bottle of Jack a night, as long as you can function. I used to be able to function. I can't function anymore. I feel like I live in this body and I can't control it. I feel like I'm sleepwalking. I don't even know who I am anymore. I used to think this was just passing teenage angst bullshit, but it's starting to overwhelm me. I can't connect with people. I can't feel them anymore. I feel like I'm fucked up beyond belief and I don;t know how to get help or where to start. I feel so trapped here. I feel like I can't get away from this life. I don't want this life anymore. It just makes me angry. I get so very frusterated. I can't even articulate how I feel. I'm not even sure that this even qualifies as feeling...

January 1, 2010

2010-01-01T20:34:00.000-08:00

Well the new year is here. I went to Kristen and Tasha's party last night. It was at Dode's house, but Dode was upstate. I can't decide if I had fun or not. No, that's not right. I know I had fun, but I find myself unsettled by that reality. I'd imagine it's an emotion very similar to the one Oppenheimer must have felt when he realized that in one action he both achieved a great success and paved the way for even greater tragedy. I just feel like I want to celebrate my progression towards adulthood, but I shouldn't glorify the means by which I achieved it. I feel very alone. Very incredibly alone. I'm often lonely, however this is something much different. It feels bigger, like it's going to swallow me whole. I feel like I'm getting lost in my own head sometimes. My memory has been terrible. I've been forgetting to eat. I think that's the result of stress and lack of sleep. Something deep inside of me is telling me to anticipate a breakdown; and I don't mean a panic attack. I feel like something in the air is stirring and a great change is coming. There's a line in You've Got Mail where Meg Ryan's character says something along the lines of "People are always telling me that change is good, but all that really means is that something you didn't want to happen, has happened." I feel like my whole life has been a happening that I didn't ask for. The other night, when I was in CT visiting Joanna, we got to talking and I told her a few things about my childhood. She ended up crying, and I ended in hysterical laughter. I guess that's just life? Comedy and tragedy seem to be conjoined by some vital organ; the two are inseperable. They complete each other, ironically enough. Fitzgerald has a quote about how being a genius is defined by one's ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time, and have them both make sense without cancelling each other out. I feel as though that's the perfect way to describe things right now. I feel like there are two polar opposite people inside of my head and both of them make perfect sense, I just don't know which to trust. I'm not implying I'm some sort of genius, but there is, afterall, a fine line between brilliance and madness. Or perhaps the two are simply conjoined at the spine.

December 20, 2009

2009-12-20T15:18:00.000-08:00

Oh what I wouldn't give for a smoke right now. I don't even smoke, really. It's why I gave my whole pack of Marlboros to Kristen. It's not that I'm against it for moral reasons or am cautious about my health, I just never even think to light up a cigarette. It only occurs to me to smoke when I'm in a circle of people who are all individual smokers. I guess I'm a "social smoker" but honestly, who in New York isnt? Everyone here is so stressed out all the time; and I know that it's cool being healthy and self-aware now, but Big Tobacco is a part of culture, man. Anyways, I think I want a smoke right now because I'm really anxious and lonley. At this point I'm not even worried about finishing my term paper, I know I'll finish it. I'm just driving myself mad with self doubt. I feel like every sentance I add to this analysis is another nail in my coffin. It's stupid. Whatever, I don't even care anymore. It snowed like a foot of snow overnight. I was up until 6am working on my paper so I watched the inches pile up, and listened to the snow plows scrape along the roads. Snow is nice, but since Joanna moved to CT it's not the same. What was once this exciting big deal, is now just another small detail of life. It's like that joke that you told one time too many and somewhere along the line it stopped being funny. I guess I'm not a kid anymore, and nothing is new to me. Maybe this is why I want to be in love with someone. That would be new to me. I want to be in love and feel like there's still a whole plethora of things to experience. Right now I just feel cemented into this redundant reality. Right now I really want to call someone up and go see a movie, or make a snowangel. Right now I want to lay in bed and listen to Beirut. I want to have a fantastic conversation about theology with someone. I want to do anything but sit here and stare at this Microsoft Office Word Document and google MLA citation. I really need a smoke, or maybe I just wish someone else was around so I could watch them smoke. I don't even know anymore...

December 18, 2009

2009-12-18T23:46:00.001-08:00

When I first met Emma she was, to put it blatantly, a badass. She lived over the bridge, dyed her long hair black, wore jelly bracelets, had her eyebrow pierced, wore eyeliner and listened to screamo music. She sat in front of me in Kumar's class and the first time I mustered up enough courage to compliment her outfit, she looked up at me and said "Thanks." That was it. As high school progressed, she went on to get her lip pierced on the street of St. Mark's and tell me how she couldn't go to public high school because some girl threatened to kill her. I was afraid of Emma and absolutely intrigued. She introduced my high school to myspace and when I went to friend request her, her profile page read "Emmabean the Scene Queen." She seemed to be so far ahead of everyone else and I never imagined that by the end of a few short years, she would go on to become one of my absolute best friends. The reason I'm telling you this is because, it's funny how things end up changing. Change is weird because often it's slow and you don't notice it until you look back at someone like Emma and realize how much is different. Today, Emma attends an all women's equestrian academy college in Virgina. Her hair is her natural light brown. She listens to Sufjan Stevens and studies media. She drives a Honda, and hosts our traditional game nights in her dining room. The only reminder of her old self, is her lip ring, which has been downgraded to a small stud. Her dorm room is scattered with polka dots, and she shops at H&M. It may seem like she's become a whole new person, but she hasn't. She's still the same girl who hates roller coasters, dates Nick, and works in a library. She still hasn't pierced her ears, and she still hates feet. She still loves hummus, talks in funny accents, and laughs at poop jokes with Kristen. She's always been Emma, but lately she's just been a grown up version. It's strange how much things change. It's even stranger how much things stay the same.

December 8, 2009

2009-12-08T22:41:00.001-08:00

Tonight it is snowing and snow always triggers a great wave of nostalgia for me. So instead of sitting here writing my term paper, I'm sitting here listening to "Talk About" by Dear and the Headlights, drinking cold tea, and thinking about a whole plethora of random memories. Today, instead of studying for the math test I bombed, Cory, Kapo and I got to talking about how everyone in college is so wild and we're not. A small part of me wants to be wild and crazy, but in reality that's not who I am. I know it's stupid, but I'm a Charlie (Perks of Being a Wallflower, anyone? Read it!) and that baisically means that I think too much in order to participate in all of these "normal" activities. You can sit me down and make me watch porn, but I'll just sit and be sad and think about the people in the video who were once babies and had mothers who probably loved them a lot and wouldn't want them doing what they're doing now; and how the whole industry traps women into these stereotypes, and how there's so little solidarity among feminists and why this is all just awfully sad. I guess I'm too emotionally involved in everything. That doesn't mean I can't have fun, though. I have so many great memories and none of them involve sex or drugs (though many do involve Rock and Roll). I remember the time Kapo and I ate our Biology lab instead of using it to build a DNA strand. I remember the time Jo and I built a snow ramp for our sleds and she ended up doing a 360 flip in mid air. I remember the time Victoria and I made a watery paste from the berries that grew in her yard and tried to feed it to her dog. I remember that after we left Meghan's party, we all decided to go to Playland for an hour and ride the roller coasters at night. I remember the time Michelle and I trekked the Black Cow Coffeehouse for one of Anthony's shows, and how we got yelled at by a conductor for not knowing where a train's engine is located. I remember the time Kristen and I went swimming in Do's pool and after 20 minutes of coaxing her into the water she decided it was "so cold she couldn't see," and how we laughed about that for hours afterward. I remember all the bus rides home from Yearbook with Nia, and how a simple croissant and a stupid Dr. Pepper were the most comforting things at the end of those stressful days. I remember the time at the Nature Center that the python peed in his tank and I was the first person at work that day and had to figure out how to keep an 8 foot snake from drowning in his own urine! I remember 10th period study icees, and last period study Hot Fries. I remember all those afternoons and weekends spent at Jeena's and Namitha's houses perfecting the Senior Medley. I remeber the time my entire 4th period Art class collectively burst into tears because we were all stressed about applying to college. I remember the time Emma and I drove home from the diner singing along to Brand New at the tops of our lungs. I also remember the time Emma, Kapo, Nick, and I drove home from the beach screaming along to Brand New at the tops of our lungs. I remember the time we got kicked out of Target for racing in the carts; and all the times we got kicked out of the City Center just for standing still too long. I remember meeting Max in the back of Barnes & Noble. I remember trying to break into Kristen's house with a prayer card. I also remember having to go to Church with her, while being covered in blue marker penises because we both thought it was washable. I remember all those moments that made me laugh so hard it hurt, and cry so hard it stopped hurting. I remeber all the times that made me sit back and think about how perfect everything was. How I was so happy that if death decided to take me right then and there, I would be okay with that. I think that's what it's all about, in the long run. I think that when I am on my deathbed, watching the snow fall quietly, I will think about all of these memories and feel content. That is all that really matters in the long run.

December 6, 2009

2009-12-06T22:54:00.001-08:00

I like Polaroids. The shitty quality makes the pictures seem automatically dated. Everyone looks like they're from a former decade in a Polaroid, no matter how recently the photo was taken. I like this. It allows me to see what my youth will look like to me when I'm old. It also allows me to see what my youth will look like to my future children. Lately I've been thinking about children a lot. I'm not sure why. I'm not really a kid person. I mean kids are alright, but I've never been one of those people who fusses over babies and smiles at every child I come accross. They've just never been my thing. Not sure why. This is why I have failed miserably at remaining sane during every babysitting job I've ever got hired for. However, lately it's been really different. Lately I find myself really smiling at kids, and waving to babies, and making stupid faces at toddlers and delighting in their giggles and sqeals. Today I spent a few hours wandering around a ridiculously crowded Toys 'R' Us, shopping for Christmas gifts, and I actually enjoyed myself the whole time I was there. It made me really happy inside to see all those little kids' faces light up whenever they picked up a new toy. Even the sad ones that were cranky and tired, fussing in their strollers made me smile because something about being able to burst into hysterical sobs in the middle of the toy store, seems very liberating and I guess I was just living vicariously. As kids, Joanna and I always played house, but very rarely did I ever volunteer to be the Mom. Then as I grew older, I grew more disinterested in children and eventually reached a state of complete misunderstanding. I just didn't understand kids, so I avoided them. So, in high school when Sister Margaret had us fill out all those questionaire things about what we'd be good at in the future, and when Ms. Schwartz had us present our Future Lives to the guidance class, I assumed I'd be living in some fantastically foreign land and children would obviously not be on my silver platter. Up until now. I don't know what it is that I ate, but oh man are babies awesome. I don't want one, but I'd love to just play with one. Babies and children are fantastic. They're like little people! I don't know why this reality didn't occur to me sooner. I have no idea why it occured to me all of a sudden, either! I just know that I'm starting to actually look forward to the day that I have a baby of my own, so I can read to her/him and teach her/him how to play with all of her/his toys, and eventually... one day, sit on a dusty attic floor with two cups of freshly brewed tea, together flipping through old Polaroids of my youth.

December 5, 2009

2009-12-05T17:22:00.001-08:00

I just watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I realize, I love Jim Carey so much more in his serious roles. I actually really hate him as a comedian. I can’t connect with his humor. I’m not sure why; I just know it doesn’t make me laugh. Comedy is tricky. I can’t tell you why I laugh at the things I laugh at. I can’t categorize for you the multiple kinds of comedy that exist. Sometimes I make people laugh when I am being very serious. Other times, my humor really upsets people. People ask me if I’m “okay” all the time now. I never really know what to say. Of course I’m “okay.” I’m not sure what the opposite of “okay” is, and since I don’t know that, I can’t be that; so I got to be okay, right? A Yahoo news story once told me the meaning behind the acronym ‘O.K.’ I don’t think I read the whole thing because I can’t remember it now. The phone just rang and I lost my entire thought process here. It was my mother’s friend. Apparently my mother isn’t answering her cell phone. Her friend was concerned. I’m not concerned. I know exactly what is going on, though I really wish I didn’t. I have so much more to say about this, but I can’t say it. I don’t want to think about it. I hate it. Sometimes I wish I could hire someone to go into my brain and delete all the awful memories. I want them to delete the time I spit in Victoria’s face during Library Study because that was really uncouth. I want them to delete the time I was riding my bike in the rain and hit the brakes too hard and slid under a car, because that was the last time I ever rode a bike and I'd really like to ride a bike again. I want them to delete the time those kids cornered me and Jo and threatened to kill us if we didn’t give them our money, because that made me afraid to walk home for months and it made me feel like I was a bad friend to Jo for being afraid. Those are just some specific memories I’d like removed. There’s a lot more that I’d need them to slice out too, though. Things that are not so specific. Things like: the moment I started hating myself so much; or the moment I decided to build a wall; or the moment I stopped being happy. I’d like those things taken out as well, because I’d imagine my life would be a lot simpler without them. Maybe then I’d be able to kiss a boy sober and really mean it. That’d be so nice. I’d imagine it’d be really wonderful.

November 27, 2009

2009-11-27T21:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-23T22:26:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-22T21:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-18T21:05:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-17T20:55:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-16T23:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-15T21:45:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-14T21:31:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-13T20:51:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-12T20:44:00.001-08:00

“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

2009-11-11T17:22:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-10T20:16:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-09T17:46:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-08T15:13:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-07T21:44:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-06T16:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-05T17:25:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-05T17:23:00.000-08:00

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.