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I'm not getting involved with this anymore.
After over sixteen months, there are better things to occupy my time.
Goodbye, blog. Goodbye, bludgerbabe. Let only the archives and stripes remain.
Perhaps someday we'll meet again.
The worst part about growing older is that we become more easily angry at one another. We lose our etiquette, or rather, or ability to relate to other people. I ask you not to block out what may enhance your mind and ideologies.
The main detriment of human nature is our failure to listen to the opinions of others.
Just open up your eyes
And give me love over
Love over
Love over this
--Coldplay, Politik
You and I, our lives are lived in the photographs. We were originally in one picture, and now we are entire albums apart. If someone were to wrap the negatives around the walls of a warehouse, we would be the end pieces.
But eventually, wouldn't we meet again?
Photographs are a tricky business. Some individuals are such addicts--hauling cameras to every dance, date, mall trip--that I often feel inadequate about my own photography habits.
You're a tricky business. I'm still sidestepping around your rough edges and corners.
This post is the equivalent of dog barf in the garbage disposal. My fingers can no longer work on the keyboard. It's like someone has bound them too tightly together with glue and twine. The bones are broken and they just sit in a soupy mess while I try to make sense of it all. Soon they will splatter all over the keyboard. Squish.
Just like the bloody footprints on the stairs shortly after midnight.
The marks that I made still faintly remain.
It's terribly difficult to get blood out of white carpet.
So, I've been sworn to secrecy about the prom theme until Monday at 12:30, but provide this as a clue:
Check here tomorrow for an announcement concerning the theme for next year's prom.
So my computer comes down with the technological equivalent of meningitis, and contracts fourteen viruses, hence the absence of blogging.
"I need to rebel against myself. It's the opposite of following your bliss. I need to do what I most fear."
--Lullaby
On the other hand, I have been getting sufficiently more sleep in the evenings and have better managed my time over the weekend. All Chuck Palahniuk books which I own have since been reread. In particular, I remember why Lullaby is my favorite.
A copy of Survivor for short term loan would be greatly appreciated. I began it several years ago backstage at the theatre, but could not finish before the run of the show ended.
Seeing three versions of Romeo and Juliet in less than twenty four hours leaves me broken and empty. I did an independent study on the play in eighth grade, but didn't really understand the emotional prowess it contains until this afternoon.
Ah, Love.
The dilapidatory parade
Of wild eyes and loose jaws
Without manners or circumference.
Life quite isn't the same without it.
The highlight of my day has been trying on a dress which will be my costume for an upcoming production. It was frilly, white with pink stripes, with yards of lace and ribbon reminiscent of a Victorian tea party. Coupled with bare feet and the wig of a whore, the juxaposition was stunning.
After school, Bekka and I stopped by Kroger and bought two very important items: a small pumpkin, pencils covered with Day-Glo flowers and the words "I'm cool", and a board book entitled "Peek-a-Boo, Hulk" about the Incredible Hulk going hiking. We decided to break into the local prep school and hide our presents in the men's dressing room. The pumpkin, however, was intended for the backyard swimming pool of a residence.
Pumpkins float. Because they contain a hollow center, the mass of a pumpkin is less than the mass of water it displaces; this is Archimedes' Principle.
A Story
My name is Peter Jamie Eric Lind (I have 3 ferist names.). I a'm at school. The year is 1960. Oneday a new girl came to the class. She looked just like Captain Janway (I'm a fan of Star Treak Voyager). Class theis is Bethany. said the teacher Mrs.white. She must be prittiest gril in the Sixeth grade and just think she's in my class. Amber blinked her eyes at me. She thinks she's prittie. Anyway I asked bethany on the playgrord if she whould be my grilfriend. She said "Yes!" but one day She moved away.
I cryed and cryed for a long time. and nothing helped. I was sad untei'l I died and ther sat Bethany on a thoe of some sort. Then I saw God. He said "You have had a good life. I a'm very inpreast. For this you will be King of Godtown and I will grant you and Bethany any wish you like as long as its the same." "WOW" I said. "well what will it be?" Said God. Bethany and I looked at each other and said at the same time "We want to live another life." "Very well." Said God. So God sent us to pegnet lady's that were naibors. we had a so-so life, until somthing cool happend. When we were 8, whopi goldbeg told us that we were going to be in a movie called "Star Wars Kids!" "Cool". I said. So she drove us to the movie steico.
--May 2-3 1995 (first grade)
Consciousness
Bashful broken battered bombastic boisterious beautiful
Clearly cannot choose the regrets seeping in like an early grey
And nevertheless droplets fall turning clips
they bring paper together
Sneak previews for echelon with remorse
Into rust without rain
Not ready to run without an umbrella
She calls him at night so that he won't cry
Aloe on the chapped skin dry mouth without juices
Burnt off skin
I know I'm not as beautiful as I used to be
But still let the sun shine through
In my dream last night I was Jesus
Nailed and bent
listening to country music with math teachers and minivans and a curly haired lover
The blood collected in pores as skin peeled off
Plenty of skin
Bonneted without modest clover
Because I am not ready to run in the rain
It was real
In continuing with my temporary Scarlet Letter craze, Today's Bizarre Google search of the day is Chillingworth:
Notice the erm, demonic muse on the left side of this poor Hawaiian's head. Suspicious.
Thanks to Das Blog for the idea.
Why the long face, Mister Sunshine?
Can't you handle a a little rain?
Spontaneity is the key to life as we know it. People can affix Post-It notes to every solid surface and schedule their lives, but is it actually ever satisfying? As we all grow old, I believe we will find that the most pivotal moments of our existence--rather, the times when we feel most alive--were never expected. Sometimes vertigo can do wonders in clearing the mind.
Soon, the social spectrum may be shaken. (Thank God.) Or not. The issue is resting in the air; it all depends on a chain of events that should be taken as they come.
Expect nothing.
Be ready for anything.
The Scarlet Letter is tinkering with my brain.
My words are unforseen and invisible in the vacant recesses of my mind. The time has come for them to suddenly spring forth after such a period of repentence and reckoning that now the anticipation of executing such deeds cramps my stomach. From a neutral mood, I play with feelings, testing each one out in tense boredom. There is anger; it is accompanied by a dry mouth and heightened sense of alarm. There is pride; an untouchable feeling that only touches on the tips of perfection before quickly transforming into vanity. There is lust; a taboo emotion that occurs naturally within even the most stable of the developmental spirits. Finally; there is remorse; the actions which still make my fingers shake as they remember where they have gone. All this is spiteful and certainly not pragmatic, caught in a dream that spins cobwebs around even the most rational crevices.
And in a moment the short period of time has been encapsulated within the library of my soul. Another failed attempt to reinvent the wheel from slashed tires has been committed. If you call this passion, then may it be the obsession that melodramatically enlongates itsef into a tragic flaw.
Lately I have been creating unnatural and improbable challenges in order to gain satisfaction. Is it cheating the game of life? Or merely a way of coping with the nagging presence that I daily try to forget?
If you are confused by these words, think of it as Dimmesdale late at night upon the scaffolding, wanting so much to scream his faults. When he finally attempts a confession, the meteor-bespeckled darkness only hears a hoarse cry. I am not one of those depressed teenagers with endless problems spurting out of their ears; it is this one issue and this issue alone which has continued to haunt me as the years progress. So though my problems are of no comparison of his, in retrospect I believe that I may know what really goes on inside poor Dimmesdale's head.
It seems in the commissioning of Michael Phelps as a pop icon, fans have forgotten another extremely talented USA Olympic swimmer. Aaron Piersol, the 21 year old University of Texas student whose heart lies in the California surf, completely swept all backstroke medals, winning gold in the 200M, 100M, and 4x100M Medley Relay. Among other achievements, at the age of fifteen, Aaron was the youngest American to break two minutes in the 200m backstroke. He also won a silver medal in Sydney at the age of 17. I'm getting tired of hearing about Phelps and Piersol is a lovely change.
Piersol's reaction to his disqualification after an "illegal turn" in the 200M backstroke. The medal was later restored.
The Olympics will be greatly missed.
After watching "The Shining" with six other teenage girls late at night, troubles regarding the lovely field of automobiles have been completely forgotten. "The Shining" is such a psychological thriller; I love it--even though I closed my wimpy eyes for half the film. Afterwards, because of reasons unknown (maybe it was the sushi and chocolate dinner), I couldn't fall asleep. About 2:30 AM, my mom administered a rather strong sleeping pill that has left me very woozy and disoriented the entire day. Blehhh.
Speaking of "The Shining", Beloit College's annual Mindset List is up; a detailed account of everything professors should remember about incoming college freshmen. Among the fifty items:
""Heeeere’s Johnny!" is a scary greeting from Jack Nicholson, not a warm welcome from Ed McMahon."
Ed McWho?
In other news, "The Return of the King" at the art museum was cancelled about three quarters of the way through because of a burnt projector. Hopefully, we'll have information concerning a make-up date soon.
There must carry some sort of invisible bad-luck talisman in my pocket when it comes to automobiles.
Not in recent memory have I been so utterly unable to understand the motives behind people's actions.
I am listening to my father red-faced and shouting about the woman who was supposed to sell us a car at 4:30 today. Last Sunday, we called her to make an test-drive appointment less than an hour after it was posted online. We talked to a mechanic, and received twelve pages of background information on the vehicle. We drove the car, made an offer, shook on it. We had the checks, the insurance, everything. Instead, the owner of the silver Mazda Protege 99 (MY Mazda Protege that I worked all summer to afford) randomly decided at noon to sell the car to a Duke student--guess she sort of forgot to tell us. The only way we found out was from calling her to confirm directions to Durham.
My mother was so shocked she put down the phone, exited the room, and there was a great deal of door slamming. My brother kicking me, myself sitting stoic upon a stairstep, only added to the frustration. I, terribly upset and not entirely sure of the situation, ran upstairs and collapsed on the bed, where I feel asleep. The angry and loud remarks of my father awoke me many minutes later.
She's not returning our calls either.
Selling a car to someone else is one thing. I can forgive that easily. But getting burned by someone takes the situation to an entirely other level. It's rejection and betrayal to the nth degree, leaving me here wondering what has happened to virtue and ethics in this society.
It makes me terribly upset.