pakalolo

2005-03-28T22:17:00.000-05:00

I'm singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feeling
I'm happy again
I'm laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun's in my heart
And I'm ready for love
For love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I've a smile on my face
I'll walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Singing, singing in the rain
In the rain.

2005-03-20T18:26:00.000-05:00

Dim Sum = yum. We are so white, but at least we are classy about it.

Men with elephant trunks for penises are all the rage. Go ahead boys, run don't walk to the nearest penis store and get yourself one today.

My parents are having a private screening of Noir films in my living room. Thats when you know it's time to escape to Sarah's...

There was an unfortunate lack of dandruff in my hair today.

We wished feverishly for springtime but instead...snow?

That's not all.

But it's all I'll write.

2005-03-16T01:55:00.000-05:00

SYLVIA HAS HOT DATES AND HEARING ABOUT THEM MAKES ME FEEL WARM AND FUZZY INSIDE! (just thought the world should know)

also, BEN and SARAH: the benansaratonin levels in my brain are getting dangerously low. Also, Sarah, I have a present i've been meaning to give you for weeks. Perhaps i will mysteriously slip it under your door. Although now i've just gone and ruined all the mystery of that. ANYWAY. i miss you both.

also! who wants to play SET with me? Am i the only person who likes that game? Playing it alone is getting boring.

also! my cat pooped on my floor.

also! it is two am and i am STILL not done with this paper. ARGGGGHHHHHHH

the end.

2005-03-08T22:30:00.000-05:00

Yo!

I just discovered that there are ways to waste time online that I'm not partaking of!
Will someone who is a part of this sconex thing invite me into it?
otherwise i might actually have the time to do my homework or something.

Also, I've resolved to update this thing more regularly.
sort of.

ok, this is going to have to count as an entry.

2005-02-24T01:16:00.001-05:00

Pickup Lines
(I didn't write any of these myself, I found them on the internet (don't ask why i'm looking for pickup lines on the internet, it's already been established that i'm a huge loser))

1- You must be John C. Calhoun cause you're making my south rise again.
2- If you were a burger at McDonalds, you'd be named McGorgeous. (what girl could resist a pickup line like that?)
3- Guy: Did you just fart? Girl: No, why? Guy: Because you just blew me away.
4- Your name must be Lucky Charms, cause you're magically delicious.
5- You fascinate me more than the Fundamental Theorem of Calculus. (I'm sure whoever thought this one up is one irresistibly seductive stud muffin)
6- My love for you is like diarrhea; I can't hold it in.
7- Hey c'mon now, I'm ugly, you're ugly, it's perfect.
8- Is your name Pepsi? Because you sure are sizzling. (does that make any sense? no, i thought not.)
9- You're looking sharper than a page of Oscar Wilde witticisms that has been rolled up into a point, sprinkled with lemon juice and jabbed into someone's eye. (swoon)
10- Your perfume smells like Jesus. (after how many days on the cross?)
11- (Look down at crotch) It's not just going to suck itself.
12- How do you like your eggs in the morning? Fertile?
13- Is that an upward sloping marginal demand curve in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? (holler)

Also: New Pictures

And Also: Sheer Brilliance (courtesy of laura, katie, vodka, almodovar, princes, timewarps, biting, and little girls)

We have these friends and this woman teaches this class so 6they go to paris every year and they were grape pickers in the grape vines of France BOFFFFFFFFF BOFFFFFFFFF my mom can’t speak French the fermer for the diner yeah anyway then my mom in the wrong way oh BOFFFFFFF it’s really weird oh bofff

When my mom went to japan she was really pregnant. Just me. Gift giving in japan is a big deal when my dad was in japan they bowed a lot with business cards and he was like arrrghhhdid you just spray it in her eye. Breassttesses quand javais huite pfffffffffffffffffff. Pffffffffff. Yeah you know what fuck you and fuck the apostrophe too. (that is pronounced APO-ST-RO-FF because it is FRAAINCHE!)

So when I was like four or maybe like five I like had sex with girls. Did you guys like have sex with girls??? YES!!!!! We did!!! Hahahahaha like oeffffffffffff like vitement oefuffffff le tgf quand j’avais huite like oeffffffffff. Did you guys like do it with like your clothes off??? NO NO!! Katie? Katie? Did you do with your clothes off? Um,mmm I don’t remember……..SHUT UP!!!!

The pregnant women at my gynecologists office totally thinking I’m getting LAID!!! Like totally! They think im sexually active like not just like when I avais HUIT

Whos a little bit tipsy???? Yo mama!!!!!!!!!!

That was so funny I can barely masturbate now ! –n kqatie

Whats eh writing? Yopu guys!!! Read to meeeeee. Hmmm katies is type whinies in da bed with no spooooooning. Quand elle avait huiiiiiiiiiiit elle a spoone avec beaucoup beacoup des garcons mais avec beaucoup plus de fillessssssssssssssss~!!! Whatcha ta;lking can we spoon again I should a singer writer I tyhink more vodka. BUSSSSSSSSTED KATIIIIIEEEEEEE

2005-02-14T17:46:00.000-05:00

grrr hormones.

what i wouldn't give for early menopause...and some ice cream

but, in lieu of that, I will sit around and mope. and then exercise. and then mope.

argh. I'm like a depressed little old lady who names her 50 cats things like Mr. Perkins and has conversations with them about cat food, except without the multitude of cats or the creativity and with the wacked out hormones. see? i don't even make sense. bah.

grrrrr.

2005-02-03T23:55:00.000-05:00

ha!

http://www.nationallampoon.com/nl/03_voices/flirting/flirting.asp

2005-01-31T04:05:00.000-05:00

Pictures! Not nearly all of them, but it's a healthy start. Help out with captions.

2005-01-26T18:22:00.000-05:00

because i need to get over my perception that blogs are inherently different from livejournals/xangas, and for other reasons as well:

01. Who are you?

02. Are we friends?

03. When and how did we meet?

04. Do you have a crush on me?

05. Would you kiss me?

06. Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it.

07. Describe me in one word.

08. What was your first impression?

09. Do you still think that way about me now?

10. What reminds you of me?

11. If you could give me anything what would it be?

12. How well do you know me?

13. When's the last time you saw me?

14. Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn't?

15. Are you going to put this on your LiveJournal/BLOG/xanga and see what I say about you?

2005-01-21T01:02:00.000-05:00

[ Insert witty post here ]

2005-01-17T18:38:00.000-05:00

ahhhhhhhhhh
I've spent the past three days locked inside so that i could work and yet!
I've only written

143 words

out of the cumulative

3,375+

that must be written for tomorrow.

Fuck me!

p.s.
Incidentally,

this: "Ananin amina kale kurar sabah aksam mac yaparim"

is Turkish for: "I would create goals in your mother's pussy and play soccer there day and night."

and this: Ses posral v kine?

is Czech for: "Did you shit in the cinema?"
(means: are you kidding me?)

This enlightening information is brought to you by: http://www.insultmonger.com/swearing/index.htm

inspired by: Sylvia, procrastination, sophomoric humor, and the letter w

2005-01-15T15:37:00.000-05:00

I'm just not a very interesting person...

2005-01-09T17:31:00.000-05:00

Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina Sabrina

So at first i was going to write a post mentioning alllll these other things in my life and not Sabrina at all, because i'm passive agressive like that, but then i was like, damn, she's way too cute, and all i really want to do is type her name over and over and over again.

(Sabrina- this is not just some cheap scheme to get you to keep commenting on my blog...really...it's not...)

In entirely unrelated news, my heart bursts with love for Freestyle Love Supreme, and if the tickets aren't sold out yet for their last two preformances, everyone should go see it (there's very little i could wholeheartedly recommend as much as i am recommending this right now so go! www.smarttix.com) I want to go again with Sarah and shove her out of her seat to be the volunteer. Even though it'll be her 4th time. The actors will not only call her by her first name, but start making up pet names for her as well.

I can't wait to party like we're second term seniors...

2005-01-03T17:06:00.000-05:00

Today some man at a news stand told me that i should get a license for my smile because i could kill people with it.

I wish i could - that would be hot.

Also, my dad just sent me this email:

Hi Kitten Found while looking through my old notebooks to research my new strip for Breakdowns, this poem written when you were just a bulge in Maman's belly and were known to us only as Kickapoo: Kickapoo, kickapoo, floating in fluid- Is you a Jew, or is you a Druid? Is you a girl or is you a boy? Will you be good, or will you annoy? Will you be Gemini? Will you be Taurus? Will you wear Pampers or diapers more porous? x papaFor one very special reason, and that reason alone (because astrology is all hogwash) , I'm very glad i'm a Taurus and not a Gemini.

Also, my dad insisted on reciting this poem of his over and over while we made dinner:

TITS

some are like sausages,
some are like pies,
some are like blisters,
summer-like sighs.

He inists it's his greatest work. I insisted i was unable to stomach dinner.

I am off to nap. hooray.

2005-01-02T15:24:00.000-05:00

Fuck motherfucker fuckity fuck fuck shit piss fuck fucking fucker

hi... i'm on page three.

2004-12-20T21:00:00.000-05:00

jesus christ, where has my brain gone?

2004-12-15T17:24:00.000-05:00

deferred.

I am hiding and crying.

2004-12-13T19:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Jeremy,
Stop procrastinating and do your homework.
I would write something deep and metaphorical here for you to read, but all i can think about is college and no one wants to hear about that.
love,
Nadja

2004-12-12T21:19:00.000-05:00

I am so so so seduced, my head is spinning

"Wanna hold you like never before
'cause we're falling and I love you more and more."

2004-12-12T13:06:00.000-05:00

The air smells really nice today.
I had a dream that it was 6 o'clock on thursday and i was in a room with a lot of other people and i was trying to check whether yale had accepted me but everytime i had almost signed into the page the computer kept breaking and the keys kept swimming around and i kept making typos and everytime i did i had to start over. And then a long long time later i finally was able to check, and i got rejected and everyone in the room started cackling. What is happening to my brain?
Then my mom shook me awake and made me go buy milk.
But other than that, life is really good.
My parents are giving me some lady's old mac, so i will finally have a working computer.
I wish i could protect Mimi from the scary men in Taylors, but my parents are being silly.
I also wish i got to see Sarah more.
I am trying to write a real post but...there really isn't much to write.

2004-12-08T16:50:00.000-05:00

What the fuck is wrong with you people?
what happened to you? Where did you go?

I am so disgusted. (read: I am disillusioned. I am heartbroken.)
I am going to go apply to college with renewed vigor.

2004-12-05T13:49:00.000-05:00

I added pictures to my photo site. woot woot. (see links on the left)
(and by left i mean right)

Also, there seems to be a new awesome feature on that website where if you click on the picture, you can then click a little button on the left that says "add comment" and add a comment. And you know how i am about comments, so you should do that.

2004-11-29T23:23:00.000-05:00

I hate college with such a passion

I just want to fuck it

hard.

College would make a damn good lay.

What with the playing hard-to-get and all.

I think it's out of my league though.

Ivy league that is.

2004-11-22T18:37:00.000-05:00

Life is totally just my safety school.

(imissyou)

2004-11-21T20:00:00.000-05:00

SO! On Sabrina's suggestion, i posted this missed connection on Craig's list:

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The charming young women on the train last night. - w4w - 18

me: kissing my girlfriend unobtrusively. Holding her hands, looking into her eyes.
you: screaming "I can't take that HOMO SHIT!" screaming "Dicks are nice, pussies are nasty!" screaming "that’s disgusting!"

I miss your blatant ignorance already. Drop me a line, so we can get together and i can listen to you make a fool of yourself all night long.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

and i got this in reply:

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will u consider me for one time and if u like it more. ur gf is welcome too.

hope i fit the mold. single cute and ready for rain if u r. let me know if a pic is good and send one urself. it's at http://profiles.yahoo.com/royzmpa1 I live on the UES and am european.

Hope to hear back soon
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

God. People are so hillariously stupid.

On an even brighter note, i finished my Grossman paper! woot woot!

2004-11-21T01:12:00.000-05:00

“Chinese!” one of the women across the train car finishes loudly. My hand is on Sabrina’s cheek, our eyes locked. I wonder if they're talking about us.

I kiss her.

“I swear, if they kiss one more time, I’m going to hurl!” says the other woman.

I kiss her.

“Ew! Oh my god! Dicks are sexy, pussies are disgusting. Stick to the stick!” says the woman across the train car. She is practically screaming. I hold Sabrina’s hand tightly. I’m not used to this. There are tears in my eyes that I wish would disappear.

“Are you ok?” Sabrina says softly.

“I’m fine,” I say. I try to smile.

I kiss her. Hard.

“I’ve had enough of this homo shit!” screams the woman across the train car. The other passengers look at their feet. I stare intently at an ad.

“That’s so sad because,” Sabrina says, “they have pussies too. Internalized oppression,” Sabrina says.

I nod mutely. I am trying not to cry.

“It makes me mad when people who have been oppressed oppress others. I mean, not only are those two women, they’re people of color,” Sabrina says, intoning the words reverently.

“They’re clearly just jealous,” I say, forcing a smile.

“Jealous of our homo shit.” Sabrina agrees. I giggle with a flood of relief.

I kiss her.

“Jesus Christ!” the women across the train car scream. “Stick the stick in there the stick will break!” one of them says, cackling. Or at least that’s what it sounds like she is saying. I’m not really listening.

“I’m sorry people suck,” Sabrina mumbles into my lips.

“Apology accepted."

I kiss her.

2004-11-14T17:54:00.000-05:00

Life: a general equation

+ 5 My mom made apple pie
-20 I fail at homework
+40 roses
+367 Sabrina
- 50 My father's existential despair at having nothing to work on
+30 my brother's incredible coolness
+20 finally seeing ben
- 72 pointless inescapable drama
+65 hickeys
- 15 I'm really hungry
+20 phone calls from sarah's dad
-35 I can't write! ahhh!
- 25 I don't have a castle
+15 my senior quote ("standing on a street corner waiting for no one is Power"- Gregory Corso)
-5 the weather
+40 mimi's back in town

which evens out to... 380
not so shabby.

2004-11-11T15:27:00.000-05:00

I didn't write this...but...It's funny. So, yeah, you should read it.

Dear President Bush,



Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have

learned a great deal from you and understand why you would propose and

support a constitutional amendment banning same sex marriage. As you

said, "in the eyes of God marriage is based between a man a woman." I try to

share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to

defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that

Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination... End of debate.I do

need

some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws

and how to follow them.



1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and

female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of

mine

claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you

clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?



2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in

Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price

for

her?



3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her

period of menstrual uncleanness - Lev. 15:19-24. The problem is how do

tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.



4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a

pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev. 1:9. The problem is, my neighbors.

They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?



5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2

clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to

kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?



6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an

abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than

homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of

abomination?



7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have

a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my

vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?



8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair

around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27.

How should they die?



9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me

unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?



10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two

different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made

of

two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to

curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the

trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev. 24:10-16.

Couldn't

we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with

people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)



I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy

considerable expertise in such matters, so I am confident you can help.



Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and

unchanging

2004-11-11T01:13:00.000-05:00

yesssssssssssssssssss!
(yay! yay! yay!)
(jumps up and down)

-that is all-

p.s. I haven't been this happy in a while

2004-11-09T23:26:00.000-05:00

?
?
?
?
?

(that just about sums it all up)

2004-11-07T20:57:00.000-05:00

alright, you guys suck. (except sarah)
I'm going on strike until people leave comments.

2004-11-05T22:12:00.000-05:00

So i was sitting on the floor of Mimi's bathroom with Laura, playing with Mimi's black cat. Laura, who is allergic, said: "i wish i knew how to pick up cats." And i said, "like, what's a cat like you doing in a shower curtain like this?" And it devolved from there.
-Nice paws, wanna fuck?
-Is all your fur black?
-Is there a mirror in your litterbox? because i can see myself in it
-I bet that fur would look even better in a crumpled heap by my bed

ha!
ahem anyway
sat's

p.s. oh and then, mimi's mother was talking about her aunt who had a hairless cat, and i almost made a completely tasteless joke.

p.p.s. and then i walked home with a plastic bag on my head, and accidentally scared nice ladies in the street while sabrina and laura laughed at me.

p.p.p.s. my hair is kind of red and i look....brazilian?

2004-10-22T22:54:00.000-04:00

The Perils of Being a Fifth Grader

Hey! Hey Caleb! Wait up!

What? What is it? I’m in a hurry.

It’ll only take a minute, I just wanted to tell you

Tell me what? Come on, I’m already late.

I just, just wanted not to tell you but to ask you

Yes?

Just wanted to ask you if

If what?

If maybe

I really need to go.

No wait. I just wanted to ask you if I was wondering if maybe you would would you go to the dance with me?

I mean I was just I mean if you can’t I’ll just

Well, like, I’m not going to the dance. I’ve been saying that for weeks now but

Oh.

But

No never mind. Well. Um whatever. Bye.

No wait, I’m not going to the dance but

Bye good bye bye.

Stop wait where are you going Jessica where are you going stop running.

Bye good bye don’t follow me.

Hey wait! Jessica! Wait up!

2004-10-17T16:17:00.000-04:00

a 20 minute story

The sharp smell flooded out of the open subway car doors instead of the crowd of rush hour passengers that she’d been expecting. It was so strong that she could see it billowing, like a cloud, from the train car, but she pushed through it and found herself a seat. She’d just come back from another of her mini-adventures, riding metro north trains up into Connecticut and back, meeting people who didn’t know about subway cars, rush hour, poetry in motion, and then back, back down on the metro north train, all alone, feet on the seat, landing at grand central station and fighting her way now back downtown where she would finally feel safe. She was tired, she had a cold, and it took her a while to realize that there was only one other passenger, a man, on her half of the train car. All of the other passengers were pushing towards the far end of the car, leaving her and this man a wide radius of space around them. The man had very intelligent eyes. The whites were creamy and pure white. He stared peacefully at a space to the right of her head. His mouth was in a calm half smile. His red brown sweater looked soft and fairly clean. His black pants, torn and scuffed, as she tabulated points and made quick judgments, put him right on the border between decent and homeless. Her eyes continued downward and she gasped. His feet were rotting. They were swollen three times their normal size, large and puffy, red green purple brown all at once. They were flecked with peeling white scabs and he wasn’t wearing shoes exactly, but black pieces of cloth on the soles of his feet and thick black elastic straps that went over the tops, cutting into his skin. He was bleeding thick and red. The smell and the sight hit her both at once making her gag. She pulled her sweater sleeve over her hand, held her hand up to her mouth, and breathed carefully through the fabric. The man continued smiling. His eyes closed slowly and his head rolled back gently and he dozed momentarily. Then he looked up again, looked straight at her and through her. And he was still smiling, despite the space that had been cleared around him, despite the smirks and laughter of two Japanese teenagers that had gotten on and were waving their hands in front of their noses and pointing at him, despite her indiscrete sweater-sleeve-breathing, he was smiling serenely. Her shame at having this man stare straight at her as she covered her nose, perhaps it was the smell, caused her eyes to sting and a tear to roll slowly down one cheek. The man with the rotting feet looked through her, and she could feel his piercing gaze browse her hidden shames, peruse her blackest fears, and dismiss each one in turn. She heard him within her say: “I may have rotting feet, but you have a rotting soul. Don’t hide yourself behind your hand, this smell is your smell too.”

She removed her hand slowly, her eyes searching his for an answer, and breathed in deeply. The air smelled like honey suckle and watermelon. Her eyes flicked to the man’s feet then back up to his face, just in time to catch the quick flash of a brilliant toothy grin.

2004-10-14T21:48:00.000-04:00

FAULK(ner) YOU.

haha oh the witty delirium.

back to work.

EDIT:
no one seems to get this.
FAULK(ner) YOU = Fuck you.
yeah. my jokes suck. whatever

2004-10-09T22:23:00.000-04:00

and another fw fragment...

My brother trips over an old action figure of his and goes sprawling across the living room floor.

“Ha ha! I’m telling all your friends!” I tease. He’s on the verge of his awkward stage and I’m right smack in the middle of mine.

“If you do that, I’ll…I’ll tell all your friends your deepest darkest secret!!” he says angrily, brushing himself off. I laugh again, which only makes him more angry.

“Oh yeah? What’s my deepest darkest secret?” I challenge.

“I can’t tell you. It’s too horrible to say out loud.”

“Oh come on, Dash! It’s my deepest darkest secret. If you plan on telling everyone, I should be allowed to know!”

“No. I’m not telling,” he pouts, “You laughed at me when I fell.” He starts towards his room.

‘I’m sorry I laughed at you,” I say, pulling him back, “It was mean of me. Now come on, what do you think my deepest darkest secret is?”

He sits down authoritatively, and opens his mouth to speak. Then he thinks better of it. “I can’t say this,” he says, “It’s just too awful.”

“If you tell me my deepest darkest secret, I’ll tell you yours,” I say, trying not to laugh again.

“Fine. Fine!” he says, sighing like an old man, and folding his hands in his lap. My brother makes me feel much younger than him sometimes. “But I’m warning you, it’s an awful secret.”

“Go on,” I say quietly.

“You try to hide it, but I see the traces. I know!”

“You know what?”

“You you you….you bleed from your butt!!” he exclaims.

I laugh loudly. He looks shocked and hurt.

“You can’t deny it!” he says, rising and walking quickly towards his room.

“I’m not. No, no, honey, don’t make that face. I’m not denying it. But listen, come sit back down. There’s something we need to talk about.”

2004-10-03T19:37:00.000-04:00

Dear Life,
Please stop. Please please please. Just put yourself on pause. I need to write a college essay.
thank you,
Nadja

2004-10-01T16:40:00.000-04:00

The chair scrapes across the lacquered wooden floor as my younger brother stands up clumsily with my cat in his arms. He holds it with his arms wrapped around all four legs, his hands barely touching. I watch from the hallway as he climbs the creaking stairs to his room. Moist warm shampoo steam floats out of the half open bathroom door and melts my cherry popsicle. I stand where I am, watching him intently. I want to find out what my brother does when he thinks no one is looking. He walks along his balcony overhanging the living room, looking over the side. He puts his arms out over the railing, the cat now suspended above the living room floor, and stands that way for a while, lost in inner thoughts. I stay where I am; I try to breathe more quietly, so that he won’t interrupt himself. I’m worried about the cat, but the desire to catch my brother in a private act overwhelms that. My brother’s arms move apart, the cat falls through the air, I gasp loudly, my brother looks up, startled. The cat hits the wood, and its outstretched claws click loudly against the floor. It scrabbles to its feet and shoots past me, raised fur brushing against my leg. “Dash!” I say, “What did you do that for?”
“I wanted to see what would happen,” he shrugs, and I hear his door click shut softly as he locks himself back into his own world.

2004-09-30T16:29:00.000-04:00

This is a poem by Sarah. It's on her blog also, along with a picture of her in her underwear, so by all means, check it out.

Without question
you are the
worst
thing that ever happened
to my poetry.

No, i’m serious.
I mean, I’ve heard about writer’s block,
but this is ridiculous.
my poetic fluidity has dried up faster than a woman hitting menopause,
to the point where this dry spell’s got me
PRAYING for some kind of
inspirational discharge
to leak from the folds of grey matter in my brain and...
shit!
see what i mean?
I have been thinking for far too long with my heart, instead of my head, and,
i think people may be starting to notice.
And I’ve got a reputation to uphold, man!
and no its not my time of the month, so dont ask.
its my time of the day. or what used to be.
when i could sit down and write a really gritty, angry poem,
one that just seethed with teenage angst,
but now i cant.
because im just too damn happy!
or should i say, sappy?
because i used to watch Face the Nation for international news,
then West Wing for international hope,
Turn out great political satire ripe with biting wit and sarcasm...
But I can’t do it anymore!
You know why?
Because I don’t watch those shows anymore.
Because you’ve got me watching
the stars.
And I don’t mean Ben and J-Lo, no–
I mean those stars.
You’ve got me watching them,
thinking about whether you’re watching the same ones as me and—
gosh, maybe that would make a good poem?
and, and, and...
this is crap,
like a slap
accross the face of my muse
who’s had to withstand so much abuse
she’s threatened to leave my side,
leave my mind
I try to tell her: please, it's just not a good time,
but she leaves me with my pleas and really bad rhymes.
And, I can’t do this!
I refuse to let my words sink to such levels of atrocity,
refuse to submit to
“Roses are red, Violets are blue,
My poetry sucks and it’s all thanks to you”
But you turn my brain to mush and it's so hard not to let my thoughts run off in
moments of ridiculous romanticism
and irrelevant metaphors like—
Dipping my tongue and hands into the paint can of my mind, I splatter goey gobs of thought onto the wall,
then watching as the rest of the world tries to make sense of my lovesick babble
random ideas all over the white plaster, they—
come with black sharpies and try to
connect the dots.
forming man-made constellations with my nonsensical thoughts.
and this has to stop!
Because writing in abstract metaphors
so that you think i
have a more poetic view on the world than you,
is against my poetic ethics.
Which, rhymes with ethnics.
Which incidentally is one more poem topic you have rendered useless.
Because being a hoppa, means I have mixed blood which means I
never fit inside the check-mark box
always fall between the cracks
and ALWAYS write about finding my culture, where i belong.
But those poems have fallen to the wayside as I find I belong—
Up against your chest,
your arms around my back,
my
head under your chin,
eyes closed,
I sit down to write a poem, and the only thing in my head is you.
And I don’t understand why you’re the worst thing that ever happened to my poetry, if you’re the best that ever happened to me.

2004-09-27T17:08:00.000-04:00

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

2004-09-24T07:04:00.000-04:00

Dakota and I were in Nicaragua. We were 14 years old. We were alone. We were suffering from severe culture shock. Near the end of our three weeks, we went to go see “High Fidelity” in a mall in Managua. It was a jarring experience, a sudden throwback into our lives. The people on the screen had trivial problems compared to those of the people in the theater. The movie had been filmed on my block. It depicted a highly exaggerated vision of New York. I remember the movie crew throwing bags of garbage all over my street for their set. Huge fans blew the papers around. They never cleaned it up. The city sued.

The two Nicaraguan women who were supposed to be taking care of us came to the movie. In the movie, someone hit someone else over the head with a glass snowball and they died. NY is so dangerous, they informed us after we left the theater. They’d never been there. We told them we rode the subway at night. We told them we’d never been mugged. We told them that they threw garbage on my street. NY is dangerous, they said, you are just young and sheltered. You don’t live in Brooklyn. Dakota told them she lived in Brooklyn.

A man in the crowd got stabbed in the neck with a knife. Well maybe not Brooklyn, the women said, but certainly the Bronx. He had been standing right next to us. You’ll see when you get older, the women said, right now you’re too young. The man’s blood was thick and red. Someone held him up as he sagged into the dirt road. I have a friend who went to NY, said one woman, and she had a friend who’d been mugged. NY is dangerous. A rusty green pickup truck cleared its way through the crowd. It kicked up a swirl of dust. They lifted the man onto the back of it. You two are white, the women said, you live in good neighborhoods. The man’s head fell dangerously to one side. His shirt was stained red. They drove away. You’re too young, the women said, NY is dangerous.

2004-09-21T21:37:00.000-04:00

Quote of the day:

"so i guess, like, taxidermy is IN."
-joyce, looking at style.com

2004-09-21T01:16:00.000-04:00

Because it's easier than writing a post, i'm putting my great books essay here. However, it is hella long, and i don't expect anyone to read it. If you do, however, my parents told me it sucked. Is this true?

I read somewhere once that the worst reason to volunteer was out of guilt. It startled me so much that I put down what I was reading and stared into space for a long while. I’ve been volunteering in various places and in various ways all my life. It never really occurred to me to question my motives, I thought my acts of kindness existed outside of whatever lay behind them. However, when I ask myself why I feel so compelled to do these things, the answer is far from noble. The answer is – yes - out of guilt. I am an American, and this country itself is a symbol of obscene affluence. I am a New Yorker, and New Yorkers by nature believe that they are infinitely superior to the rest of the country. My parents both have challenging jobs that they love. My father is a well-known cartoonist (he says being a famous cartoonist is like being a famous badminton player) and I get to meet every contemporary writer that I admire. My mother is art editor of The New Yorker and makes a disgusting amount of money. My family, though far from perfect, is no more or less dysfunctional than any other. Yet I’ve done nothing to merit any of this, it’s all pure chance. The proverbial starving children in Africa deserve my life just as much as I deserve theirs. And this guilt, combined with a sense of adventure, is what sent me to Africa this summer.

I wanted to be thrown as far into reality as possible. I wanted no protective padding protecting me from the horrors of the world in what I imagined would be their full glory. I had gone to Nicaragua three summers ago, with my friend Dakota, who was accompanying me on this trip to Africa as well. We went to Nicaragua without a program, living in a convent/orphanage, overwhelmed by culture shock and at a loss for things to do. We’d thought somehow that our beatific presence would heal the pain of the orphan girls. But while their poverty had been glaring, their pain hadn’t been as overpowering as I’d assumed. These girls smiled at least as often as we did, and danced, and sang, and were far from miserable. If anything, I wondered if we were making things worse, by coming there with our suitcases full of useless toiletries and clothes and glossy fashion magazines, forcing them to realize just how much they were missing.

Before leaving for Nicaragua, I’d pulled out the huge garbage bag filled with stuffed animals hidden in the back of my mother’s closet. I was too old now to have them in my room, but too sentimental to throw them away. I had finally found a use for them. As I packed each one of the animals into a large suitcase, I imagined myself handing it over to a rag bedecked barefoot girl. “This ones name is Coco,” I’d say, “I got him for Christmas when I was five, and I named him Coco because his eyes are brown, like coconuts.” And the girl would look up at me, her eyes overflowing with tears of gratitude, thank me quietly, and run away. She would cherish Coco, carry him with her everywhere she went, whisper her secrets to him late at night. I’d always felt guilty about the severe neglect most of my stuffed animals suffered. I had too many to love any of them. Now I could find each one of them an owner who could love them in the way I’d never been able to.

As is usually the case, the daydream was far from reality. We’d been there for two weeks already and the animals were still in the suitcase. Realizing that the perfect opportunity to bestow each gift would never arise, we dragged the suitcase down into the courtyard. We opened it, and I pulled out a large, incredibly soft white bear, aptly named Whitey. I handed it to the nearest child. She grabbed it and then reached into the suitcase and grabbed a second one. In no time at all, a large mob of kids had swarmed us. This was far from the orderly line I’d imagined. Over my desperate cries of “Uno! Uno!” the children climbed over each other, grabbing as many toys as they could and shoving them into their backpacks. No more than three minutes had passed, and suddenly we were all alone, an empty suitcase in hand, dust swirling. There wasn’t a single child in sight, not one tearful “thank you” uttered.

It had been drilled into me since birth that it was impossibly impolite to take, or even ask for, something that hadn’t been explicitly offered to you. I was shocked by the behavior of these children. But it wasn’t because I was a better person that I could practice such restraint; it was because I could afford it. If you didn’t know when or even if you’d ever again be offered a teddy bear, and someone lay an entire bag filled with them at your feet, it would be near impossible to take just one. This experience proved to me that for all of my altruistic notions, I was essentially trying to assuage my guilt. I didn’t just want each of these children to have a teddy bear. I wanted them to thank me for it. Remembering the naïveté of my daydream, I cringed at the self-importance it implied. I learned something I have never quite been able to fit into words. I know now that the children were grateful, in their own way, but the sort of gratitude I expected could only have come from someone raised in the perverse prosperity I was. Trying to overcome the gaping schism between my culture and others became more important to me than giving people material things that would bring them no more fleeting pleasure than it would have given me.

In Tanzania this summer, I was prepared to help without any of the self-gratification recognition would provide. I knew that in a month I wouldn’t be able to heal anyone’s pain. I knew I would change my life far more than I’d change theirs. This time I was helping in a concrete and straightforward way. I was teaching English to a class of 40-50 third graders all of whom knew no English beyond “good morning” (and my Swahili was even worse). I could write an entire essay (or three or four) about that experience alone, but the things that happened outside the classroom were equally as interesting.

In Nicaragua, the attitude towards tourists was incredibly different from in Africa. Nicaragua was a rich country compared to Tanzania, they were used to Americans there, and we were able to blend in a little bit. In Tanzania, we stuck out as if we were painted purple and beeped. People addressed us constantly as “mzungu,” white person, without the least intention of racism. When we told them we were from New York, they had no idea where it was, and when we told them we were from the U.S., they thought that was in Europe. We were the only white people for miles (we were among the first volunteers in that specific region, and most of the relatively few tourists Tanzania got went to the Serengeti). They accepted our help openly, without fearing our pity, but only because we didn’t quite count to them as human, we were more like infinitely rich extraterrestrials. They felt a certain unspoken right to any of our money, belongings, or other forms of charity we could offer. They felt no shame in asking us for things.

One day, Dakota and I had walked from the volunteer home to the surprisingly normal looking “fancy” supermarket about a half mile away to stock up on chocolate and lollipops. On the way back, a woman with a baby wrapped up on her back in a length of cloth, walked along side us and spoke to us. “I have seen you, teaching at school, yes?” she asked. “Yes,” we replied, flattered but far from surprised at being recognized. “Very nice, very nice. It is good the school, yes? Where are you from?” she asked. This was the warmest any stranger had been to us since we’d been here, and I loved her instantly. We talked for a few minutes longer, until she said, never changing her tone or her smile, “Give me sweets for my baby.” I was instantly hurt. “No. No, we can’t,” I said, “I’m sorry.” She smiled said goodbye and walked off.

I was confused. I had pockets full of candy, how dare I not give her any? Yet, at the same time, how dare she ask? Be it walking me some place I’d asked directions to, or someone allowing me to take their picture, or simply someone smiling at me on the street, every gesture I took to be kind and welcoming invariably resulted in a request for money. I felt so out of place there that every single time someone treated me like a friend, I jumped to believe in his or her sincerity. And every time they wound up wanting something from me, I was hurt. I told my father about the woman and her baby later that evening on the phone, expressing betrayal and anger. “Where else is she going to get candy for her baby?” he scolded, “You could easily have spared some.” And this was true, yet it wasn’t quite that simple. To give the woman candy, or the boy who walked me to the post office money, or the girl standing smiling into the camera 1,000 shillings, would have been dehumanizing. It would have meant admitting to the insincerity of their friendship. It would have meant giving up on my notion that there was something more precious, personal, meaningful, durable, that I could give them than material goods. A sweet for her baby would have lasted no longer than a minute, I reasoned, teaching children addition could last for a lifetime.

But perhaps I was fighting yet another reality that I didn’t want to have to face. Whenever I help people, I will always be helping myself more than them. Nobody’s motives are ever purely altruistic. If they strike up a conversation, they want something in return, and if I go there ostensibly to give, I am still expecting to receive. However, if that is true, than so is this: There is no worst reason to help people. To help people out of guilt is not the same as to dehumanize people by pitying them, although even that would be far from criminal. If there is no such thing as commonplace altruism, than every reason to help someone must be both good and bad in equal measures. Moreover, whatever these very general conclusions mean, I’ve also discovered something simpler and greater. There is always more to learn.

2004-09-12T22:01:00.000-04:00

I am taking a bubble bath!! Why am i so fucking awesome?

ATTENTION: School sucks-moral support party! Monday morning. 8 am. Taylors. Be there or be square.

and now for something completely different:

"The marvelous thing is that it's painless." he said. He removed his left arm and placed it gently on the table between us. "It's the ultimate form of meditation," he continued, bent over, as he unscrewed his left leg with his remaining arm. Each limb came off cleanly, reminding me of the barbie dolls i used to heartlessly behead. Using every other part of his body, he removed the remaing arm and leg, then calmly asked me to help him sever his head from his torso. I walked to his chair, put my hands softly on each side of his face, twisted and pulled. It came off with a satisfying pop that resounded in the quiet room. I placed both head and torso on the table, angling his face so that i could look him in the eyes from my seat. The disassembled body was mildly disconcerting. Each part moved of its own volition, fingers drumming on the table quietly as he spoke. "So which part is really you?" i asked finally, "Where does the human soul lie? Is it in the heart, like the ancient scientists believed, or in the mind as modern psychologists argue? Or is it in some as of yet undisclosed region- the little toe perhaps, or the elbow? Perhaps in the hips. Perhaps in the thighs." He thought a little while before answering and it was as if he was holding silent counsel with every peice of himself. When he spoke, only his mouth moved, but i could feel all of him humming in consent.
"See, that's the thing," he replied, "The spirit is nowhere, nor is it everywhere. We are composites. The parts make up the whole. The mind may be where reason lies, and emotion may spring from the heart- but worldweariness is found in the little toe, secrecy in the crease of an elbow. Sensuality in the hips. Strength in the thighs. We are tied together with thin threads, and the soul courses through those."

p.s. I like mimi and joyce. they are hot.

2004-09-12T01:09:00.000-04:00

***Due to the fact that this entry was written in the early hours of the morning and made very little sense, it has been censored in it's entirety.***

however, if you would like to see it, leave a comment and i will email it to you in all its delirious glory.

2004-08-02T12:43:00.000-04:00

I have been posessed by a wandering spirit
someone, please, spiritual heal me

or, you know... just email me

2004-07-24T12:34:00.000-04:00

Hanging above the city on my fire escape feels surreal.
I need an excuse to hit the streets.
Give me a call (home, my cell is screwy) and lets go party it up.

2004-07-23T23:20:00.000-04:00

Hello New York!

Please call. I have four days here.

2004-07-02T14:23:00.000-04:00

This is so amazing. (this being my trip, this continent, this country, these people)

Tomorrow, Dakota and i are climbing mt Kilimanjaro with two otehr people. The first day we are going 14 miles. Everyone says we can't do it, but we're city girls, we're strong. If you happen to think of me tomorrow, send me strong-ness vibes.
Today i decided to try to teach my kids math, after i discovered they already knew their abc's and my lesson plan was ruined. So i put and addition problem ont eh board and they all jumped out of their desks and stormed the balckboard begging for chalk with which to write the answer. So I gave them a list of problems to do on tehir own,a dn there were a few kids who finished in minutes, i gave them harder and harder problems, until i ran out of additiona dn subtraction problems. SO i tried multiplacation. There was one quiet adorable little boy named kelving who got it right away. We tried division, he got that too. He didn't have his ta bles memorized, but he understood the concept and could work anything out. He's six. He can read aloud in english also. I was so impressed. I made him stay in during recess, and i taught him addition of fractions. WE both got so excited. He's my new best friend.

Oh i also have a story about lizards. But thats for some other time. I taught my kids to say whats up and not much, so now when i go up to the little tanzanian children, i can go "wazzzup" and they slap my hand and say "not much" or "chillin'" Its AWESOME.

2004-06-30T07:57:00.000-04:00

mambo!

internet cafes = awesome

This is intense. I teach a class of 45 or so six year olds all alone for 4 hours a day. Which is much harder than it sounds. They speak no english. Today i taught them colors and we did the hoky poky. At some point i was reading them 'go, dog, go" So I'm reading out loud and every line that i read tey repeat in unison. "Look at those dogs go!' i read. "look at those dogs go" they say. "what is this?" i say, pointing to a car on the page. "What is this?" they all say. "no, no no what is this?" i ask. "No no no what is this?" they reply.
I don't have much time to write in here, but anyone who sends me emails is really cool and will get a long reply. and...you know you want that. So springshowers01@hotmail.com

peace out y'all

or should i say salama?

2004-06-25T10:54:00.000-04:00

So everyone in the gay bars knew straight off we were straight. goddamn. We considered a bottle of wine hotel room party, and perhaps some casual sex on the side with one of the numerous attractive english men, but the jetlag took over, and we went to sleep. We leave for africa in a few hours, and I'm impossibly nervous. Fear of the unknown and what not. Today we went to a bar by a canal and got pleasently tipsy off of stella and martinis. Also we took lots of pictures of random people. Also we got completely lost. Also we found a flea market and almost spent every cent of our parents money on pretty shirts but then decided we'd do that on the way back.

It would be nice if people wrote me emails. I'm an internet fiend and i'll find a way to check them. Tell me about your summers.

2004-06-24T07:16:00.000-04:00

24 hours of running wild through London...any suggestions? we were thinking gay bars and jazz concerts. and bottles of wine, pubs, cigarettes, and underwear hotel room dance parties.

2004-06-23T11:27:00.000-04:00

Africa...holy shit.

2004-06-17T19:14:00.000-04:00

To the men in the park

Lift your tired heads off the summer playground benches
It is 5 am and the swings are creaking.
Clear your mind of beer with a breath of humid air
Because over the rushing sound of the all-night sprinkler
It is 5 am and the swings are creaking
Turn on your side, long bruised from hard wood sleeping
It is 5 am, why are the swings creaking
See two girls, two women, or rather two people
In frilly skirts and barefoot, rhythmically swinging.
They are not smiling, laughing, talking;
They are swinging
What are they thinking with such purposeful detachment?
It is 5 am and the sun is rising
They are composing a poem
Of park benches and beer
Of dawn and swing sets
A poem about you, as you lift your tired head thinking,
It is 5 am and the swings are creaking.

2004-06-14T17:57:00.000-04:00

GOOGLISMS!! (warning...I had a LOT of time on my hands, so this is long)

nadja is a visual trip
nadja is every bit the monster her father once was
nadja is not fiction
nadja is a dadaists dream
nadja is the perfect vampiress
nadja is in constant demand

dakota is a very obliging ride
dakota is generally fresh
dakota is so easy
dakota is also number one in the nation for underage drinking
dakota is rich with native american history
dakota is 100 percent pickup

laura is like playing with fire
laura is a lesbian and fucks chickens
laura is 'styling'
laura is your god
laura is keen on sending messages in odd ways
laura is not a fan of the camera

joyce is predominantly humorous
joyce is a registered dietician
joyce is suddenly illuminating
joyce is young at heart
joyce is a wonderful inspiration for us parents that have kids that learn a little differently
joyce is related to me but how?

mimi is a 2 year old spayed female who is very sweet and loving but does suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder
mimi is a real mix between fantasy and reality
mimi is the cantankerous concierge
mimi is sandy and virtually treeless

hannah is here to stay
hannah is a wild man
hannah is young and beautiful and longs to be free
hannah is compelled to write and talk
hannah is back in purgatory
hannah is weaned off of the prednisone

sarah is autographed and up for bids on ebay
sarah is making herself ill by pretending to love her husband
sarah is an international event
sarah is motivated by compassion to do good deeds
sarah is a design label especially for bigger women
sarah is a sneaky goldfish

mark is serious business
mark is more than just a label
mark is a golden god
mark is a cowboy rockstar
mark is the first african in space
mark is an ancient document

jason is possessed
jason is also short
jason is hard to understand
jason is the total package
jason is an open source java application server
jason is kept under lock and key

ashley is a pita?
ashley is hidden from most of the world
ashley is at the emergent reader stage
ashley is having difficulty maintaining adequate oxygenation
ashley is reinventing the law practice
ashley is classified as a fragrance

jeremy is a punk
jeremy is the essence of adolescence
jeremy is a true anomaly
jeremy is a year old autistic child
jeremy is covered in goo
jeremy is contagious

sylvia is truly on a mission for god
sylvia is the only hotel i will stay in
sylvia is the cheerleader i speak of
sylvia is the former editor of ricepaper
sylvia is truly defining the spiritual landscape of our time
sylvia is experienced

ben is due to strut his stuff on the catwalk
ben is having difficulty with vowel sounds
ben is watching you
ben is named the sexiest man alive
ben is jesus
ben is a valuable asset

wendy is an asian elephant
wendy is the voice of the nerdy guys
wendy is trendy
wendy is a cute evil genius
wendy is not a dolphin
wendy is not for you

If your name isn't on here, it's not because i don't think you are worth googlism-ing, its because i, eventually, got bored.

2004-06-09T18:27:00.000-04:00

Today it was decided that the last four days of stress stress stress and exams at school is like being in the last stages of pregnancy with a premature crack-baby.

This is a wonderfully apt metaphor if you live in my head, or happen to be laura or dakota.

2004-06-08T21:18:00.000-04:00

She lay naked, on the bed, eyes closed, as he wrote on her with his felt tip pen. He wrote “twists, knots, clenches” in a spiral on her stomach. He wrote “feel my power” on her ribs, and “I am still beating, I am still beating” over and over above her heart. She feigned sleep. Along her inner thigh and up to her knee he wrote “ I bury my secrets deeply”. On the other leg: “hold me softly”. On the tops of her feet, running diagonally from toe to ankle, he wrote “take me to the sea” and around both ankles like bracelets: “I am immortal” Underneath her knees he wrote “Make me laugh”. She stirred slightly. He brushed her long brown hair gently away from her neck, and wrote carefully “I am vulnerable”. Where her hipbones jutted out, he wrote “I am a ballerina”. She was not, but he knew without her saying so that she’d always wanted to be. On each finger he wrote a color. On the inside of her wrist he wrote “I am a river”. On the soles of her feet he wrote, “Grace”. He wrote all night long, and eventually she slept, dreaming of the felt tip pen running across her body. As dawn burst out across the sky, and he wrote “butter fly” across both her eyelids, she awoke. Her body was covered in ink like a canvas. He’d signed his name on her heel. She laughed. She told him she wanted it all off. She could barely see the color of her skin. He tried to lick the ink off of her, but his tongue was too gentle, and the ink had bled too deeply into her skin. So he slipped one arm under her knees, and one arm under her back, and carried her, laughing to the shower. He scrubbed with soap and water at her skin until she was red and raw. And clean. He wrapped her in a soft white towel and she shivered. It was 8 and he left for work. Alone, she rubbed her hands carefully all over her body, feeling its newness, its redness, its rawness. He’d scrubbed away the ink stained skin and this was what lay underneath. As she leaned out her window and watched him walk away down the sidewalk, she realized he hadn’t cleaned one place. Kicking up her foot, she read over her shoulder “grace” and beneath that, his signature.

2004-06-06T17:39:00.000-04:00

This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too...

goddamnit

I want to be driving in the rain on an empty highway for hours. i want to be in college. I can't take high school much longer.

2004-06-02T21:03:00.000-04:00

The introduction to my short stories portfolio:

From pink gauzy fairy wings every Halloween for years, to black and red web-wings of confused thirteen-year-old dreams, to the wings that peek out of my mother’s nightgown, I am motionless and I am flying. I am morphing, stretching, pulling but there is something at the center that will never change.
Over this past semester, over this past year, over these past two years, I have grown and I have changed with alarming speed. I can’t tell if I’ve lost myself or found myself. In all these stories there are common threads. Thick hidden threads, sewing together tightly the scattered pieces of myself. There is betrayal, and there is deep love, and there is betrayed deep love. There are fairy wings and princesses and magic of an underlying sort. There are many many cigarettes. There is innocence and there is innocence lost. There are facets of the same story told over and over again.
There are photographs. Photographs bottle time, bottle moments, freeze them, preserve them and stop the constant motion. Unbottle a photograph and let loose streams of memory. There are stories. Stories flow and stories move and each time you read them something has changed, something is different, something is new. So there are photographs, and there are stories.
There is black in here, and there is white. There are no colors. Everything is complicated enough as it is. There is myself in here, and there are other people. There are other people in me, there is some of me in other people. Nothing is ever quite black and white.
I am still growing and I am still changing and I am still flowing and I am still moving and I will never stop. I am a river wearing away at old beliefs. I am a microscope shifting in and out of focus. I am the shimmering reflection in a puddle of water, the electrons spinning about a nucleus, the sine and cosine and tangent of a thought, the wars that have happened and still happen and will always happen and I am also the peace. At the core of all this movement lies something static and unchanging. Take all these stories and lay them one over the other, shine a light on them and the places where they overlap – that is me.

2004-05-31T19:02:00.000-04:00

when one more person visits this page, the counter will be at 1000.
whoever you are, i'd like you to know that you hold a special place in my heart.
ha.

2004-05-29T22:08:00.000-04:00

grrrrr being stuck inside on a saturday night. When i have teenage children i will let them roam free through the city.

There's a lot that i want to write about, but i can't find the words. Maybe eventually.

the mathematical equation that is my weekend so far:
- only two hours of sleep
+ watching the sunrise
- four hour long lectures on college
- dissapearing parents
- them not dissapearing entirely
+ hot negatives
- no chemicals to make prints
+ having things to write about
- not being coherent on two hours sleep
+ getting to know people i've admired from afar
- no one is ever as perfect as i think they'll be
+ but they're still pretty damn cool
- having reservations about hard drugs that i can't justify
+ having my brain be intact
+ violent samarai ballet movies
- falling asleep half way through

2004-05-26T22:10:00.000-04:00

Aim improv comedy
(an entire one half of the credits go to the lovely Ms. ptitza, in the role of Mary Kate Olson, whose long overdue link can now be found to the right)

MARY KATE OLSON: (small voice) feeeed me ... just one triscuit ... i promise not to tell.

MANAGER: what will the press say when you can't fit into your size -1 dresses mary kate?

MARY KATE: i.... i can get them altered.....

MANAGER: we can't have them calling you Mary Ate olsen now, can we

MARY KATE: (frantically) we can... cut out the size tag and ... and sew it onto another dress ... pleeeease...... one little triscuit won't hurt?

MANAGER: the public isn't BLIND mary kate. you're already the fat twin

MARY KATE: (clawing with her bony little fingers) (begins to cry) i know... i'm the weak one...

MANAGER: did you just touch the triscuit

MARY KATE: (wiping a grain of salt off on dress) NOOOOO!!!

MANAGER: do you know how many calories you just absorbed into your blood stream with that touch!?!! quick, go cut off a limb so you'll weigh less

MARY KATE: (jumps up and down) i didn't touch it! i didn't!
(quickly) ashley eats her chapstick!!!!!! she puts it on and then she chews it off her lips!

MANAGER: alright, but if at our daily weighing time you;re 0.012 pounds heavier, you're in for it missy

MARY KATE: i saw her do it! believe me! you have to believe me!

MANAGER: now you know ashley's the thin one, she can eat whatever she likes and not gain a pound. but i don't want you to get any ideas

MARY KATE: (wiping tears away with fluttery hands)

MANAGER: give me your chapstick!

MARY KATE: but... but... it was her! (tries to conceal a tube of cocoa-flavored bonnie bell behind her back) i.... i'm so good! i'm the good one!

MANAGER: oh fine! I've had enough of this. give me the chapstick and you can have this grain of salt (grain of salt in center of huge empty plate)

MARY KATE: (licks her dry lips hungrily) (weakly, in a soft monotone) it's not chapstick it's bonnie bell

MANAGER: Alright ready? its time for that hamburger shot. i want you to wear these rubber gloves so you don't absorb any grease while you hold the fries

MARY KATE: (extends arm as though expecting injection) (despondant) ohhh.... i thought you meant.....

MANAGER: hahaha

MARY KATE: (sniffles)

MANAGER: (quickly shoots insulin into arm when MK begins to faint, then hides needle behind back)

MARY KATE: (wobbling back and forth)

MANAGER: be strong mary kate! remember, tomorrows your monthly celery stalk treat

MARY KATE: (tries to jump up and down giddily but only collapses like a marionette into a chair)

2004-05-25T22:35:00.000-04:00

An exerpt from my diary in fourth grade

"Dear Diary,
Here is a funny little play

brownie (judge)
caline and zazoo (suspects)
fudge (guard)

6 states have been bombed

Fudge (holding a gun to caline's head): do you confess having bombed these 6 states?
Caline: yes

I'm finished"

also, a conspiracy theory:

"March 19, 1997

Dear Diary,
the days 19
the years 97
also i'm 9, and there are 2 9's in 19 and 97"

2004-05-23T00:03:00.001-04:00

if anyone has the time to read the whole thing, comments on that last story would be so lovely.

This weekend has been ok but i am going slightly stir crazy. Will someone come serenade me at my window, then whisk me away on a galloping white horse? that would be nice.

EDIT: oh my goodness, Dakota just did that! without the white horse, but it was excellent nonetheless. she is the queen of my heart.

2004-05-20T07:21:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer: While some of this is may be true, almost all of it has been somehow changed or invented to suit my devious purposes.

Disclaimer # 2: This is a first draft. any and all constructive criticism will be taken to heart and incorporated into the writing immediately

A Story About How All Of Life Is a Metaphor For Itself

I step carefully over the broken beer bottles crushed into the dirty grey linoleum, wishing I’d worn something other than flip flops. I swing through the glass doors that would later be smashed in a fight between two young coke dealers. It was spring time on Spring St. and this party was so dirty it verged on poetic. When I arrive around nine forty five, there’s a line of teenagers that stretches up the many flights of stairs, waiting to get in. A strange smell wraps through the place, and I spend my slow climb to the top wondering about it. It isn’t only stale beer, the smell of so many bodies pressed together, it is something musky, almost primitive. “You know what this smells like?” says a guy loudly when I am finally right outside Camille’s apartment. “You know what this smells like??” and a few people fall silent to listen. “This smells like eviction.”
Camille’s apartment is small and most of the two hundred people there have climbed one more flight of stairs to her roof, where it is possible to breath. But rumors spread quickly that the ceiling is cracking, and the drunken private school teenagers trample each other on their way back down. A watermelon had been thrown about and pieces of it cling to the walls. The alcohol is all gone, and those who’d arrived late are distraught. An alcohol expedition is formed by a small group who scream over the loud music, and money changes hands, and the few familiar faces that I know disappear out into the streets of Manhattan to pretend to be twenty-one.
Inside the party, there is no pretending. The entire wispy concept of what it means to be between the ages of 14 and 18 in New York City has been condensed into the heavy atmosphere of this small apartment. I stagger outside. Three blond girls in nearly matching short skirts pass me on their way up. The girl in front exclaims “Aw Jennie! You’re so cute! You still wear underwear!?” The girl behind her interjects “ I used to wear underwear last year!” And Jennie pulls up her short skirt, which is so short not much pulling up is required, and nearly shouts “I’m not wearing underwear! I’m wearing booty shorts!!” I hurry down the last few flights, stifled by their overuse of exclamation points, longing for air. In some parallel universe, where I’d gone to a different High School perhaps, or made different friends, was I one of those three girls? Was this what it meant to be a teenage girl in Manhattan?
Outside, drunk private school boys were displaying what it meant to be a teenage boy in Manhattan. They’d taken over the street, men had come out of the bars to cheer them on, and the testosterone that flowed down Spring St was intoxicating. The boys had taken possession of a heavy green bouncy ball. They run head on towards moving cars, jump on the hood, and slam the ball into the windshield before jumping off. People cheer. The ball rolls towards my feet, and I roll it back, laughing, knowing this is dangerous, but knowing also there is nothing I can do to stop it. And who cares? After all, this is a poem. It takes five cars before someone stops. A cab hits the brakes in the middle of the street. A group of boys run and jump on the back, shaking the car so much the man can’t get out. College boys in bars cheer. I shout “Go unformed prefrontal cortexes!” because no one can hear me, and I’m not ashamed. The cabbie gets out eventually, and the boys begin beating him with their shoes. But I’m not there to see that, I heard that second hand, because I’m busy walking quickly down a dark alley with two 19 year old boys.
Which is not as scary as it sounds. They’d introduced themselves to my friend Cath and I with firm, serious handshakes. It was all I could do not to laugh at their polite “Nice to meet you”’s and their bloodshot eyes. They were talking and we were giggling, out in the street, over the shouts of drunken men, when a cell phone rang. It was a friend of theirs, and without explanation they excused themselves and left.
As they turn the corner, and disappear out of sight, Cath and I look at one another and laugh at the mirrored disappointment on both our faces. Fueled by each other, fueled by the spring air, fueled by the unseen chemicals coursing through a teenager’s body, fueled by a recklessness our parents would never understand, we take off at a run behind them. Halfway down a dark alley we catch up to them.
“Hey!” one exclaims to the other, “Look who it is!”
“What are you ladies doing here?” We make up some excuse. Our friends are busy, we have nothing to do. So where are they going, anyway? They are going to Bensenhurst. To get free ecstasy.
“Come with us!” they urge, “What else do you have to do?”
“We’ll walk you to the Q train,” I laugh, “But Bensenhurst? No way.” Cath looks nervous at the mention of ecstasy. Hard drugs. I am too. But we swallow that anxiety like we’ve been taught to swallow our liquor, clenching our stomachs and trying not to grimace. We help them find the Q train and part with polite goodbyes. We wonder at the pointlessness of it all. We often do.
Back at the party, when our friends ask us where we’d been, we look at one another and laugh. “Bensenhurst,” we reply. Then we are swept away by the river of their babble. Things had happened while we were gone. Had we heard about…? And we hadn’t, so they, good friends that they are, fill us in thoroughly on all the details.
“And there they were, fucking fucking in a puddle of piss. In front of everyone! So I was like ‘Go find a room! Do you know that that’s piss?’ and the coked out blond girl is all like ‘leave me the fuck alone, I’m just fucking trying to fuck him!’” my friend shouts loudly into the city street. I laugh, half amused, half horrified. All of high school could be distilled into a one sentence poem, I think. A poem which would read:

And there they were
Fucking
Fucking
In a puddle of piss.

Or maybe that wasn’t quite right. Maybe the poem would be:

fueled by each other,
fueled by the spring air,
fueled by the unseen chemicals coursing through a teenager’s body,
fueled by a recklessness our parents would never understand,
we take off at a run

While I muse over the one sentence distillation of years, my friends decide it is time for this party to be over. We pile into a cab and drive to one girl’s empty house. We fall asleep on couches, watching bad teen movies, some of us crying at the sad parts while others laugh. What a perfect ending, I think, as the sounds of the other girls blend into the sounds of my dreams. But the story doesn’t end here.
I am walking down Houston St. on my way home the next morning, and an old man with a cane stumbles out of a building ahead of me, his friend holding onto his arm. I look again, and he’s not old exactly, mid-50’s perhaps, but there is an air about him of things falling apart. The old man stands in the street and his friend bends down in front of him to tie his untied shoelace. The old man staggers three steps back, then falls backward and his feet roll up above his head. He lies sprawled on the sidewalk. I walk up to him and offer him my hand. “Do you need help?” He grabs my hand tightly with one of his. “No, no. I’m fine,” he slurs. But he holds my hand tightly and doesn’t let go. His friend grabs his other hand and we both try to pull him up, but the man is trying to lie back down, and he is too heavy to lift against his will. His friend turns to me and smiles apologetically. “It’s going to take him a while,” he says. “He’s a poet.”
“Aren’t we all?” I reply. The old man drops my hand and seems to go to sleep on the sidewalk, and I turn and keep walking home. This story doesn't end.

2004-05-17T19:07:00.000-04:00

my head is swamped with a thousand things that don't matter (like school) But one day, soon, i will have time to write deep and meaningful thoughts. Until then, leave deep and meaningful comments

2004-05-15T23:53:00.000-04:00

wooo that was kind of fun!

2004-05-12T18:26:00.000-04:00

Birthday Countdown: one more day!

life is so confusing.
I wish i could tell what some people were thinking, only briefly, only one or two thoughts. That much would be a huge help. All these mixed messages leave me so bewildered.

more than i wish for that though, i wish i didn't care. If someone out there knows the secret to not caring about things that don't matter, i really wish they would share.

In other news, the weather today was perfect. And i managed to yell "stop fucking objectifying me" to two of the cat-callers on the street today, which let out a lot of repressed frustration.

today: hearing about peoples love lives, not knowing what happened in any of my classes, LOGIC!, sylvia's beautifuly british mother, donating my shoe to a good cause, disproving my theory on cigarette karma (which is: if i let people bum cigarettes off of me, then when i need one, someone will bum me one. This is not, however, true.), a long lost hat, chocolate sales, heated history arguments, and "white rabbit". It was not, altogether, bad.

2004-05-11T18:44:00.000-04:00

Guess who's birthday is in three days?

too hard? alright. here are clues:

1- she has a really cracked out blog
2- it is this blog
3- she is probably the biggest dork you'll ever meet AND
4- if you were in her room right now, you'd see her dancing to the ramones, happier than shes been in days

BECAUSE

1- birthday in three days
2- AP's are over
3- Fish (live fish), and tea, and honeymelon cakes with my other half
4- i have a really cool french anti-capitalism shirt
5- I plan to do NO hw tonight. Instead, i will dance.

I wonder how much sense this entry makes...

2004-05-11T18:43:00.000-04:00

This is back, because i like it.

A Fable

Sure, sure it was a little pathetic. He had to admit that much at least. Although it wasn’t really that he himself thought so. It was the looks people gave him at dinner parties that made his strangeness undeniable. “And what do you do for a living?” someone would almost always ask. And, forgetting to be embarrassed, he’d excitedly launch into an explanation. They all laughed at first, but when they saw that he wasn’t laughing also, that he was serious, they’d politely excuse themselves and go talk to someone else. So sure, it was strange. But it wasn’t like he was ashamed.
See, what he did was…well, some background information first. His parents were filthy rich, right? And it had never really occurred to him to hold down a job. Eccentric passions ran in his gene line, and his father, who spent his business hours prank calling department stores, approved of his career choice entirely.
See, what he did was this. You know…well you know those joke books? Like how, in the backs of them sometimes, there are lists of obscure laws? Or sometimes you might see them in a forwarded email. Laws like: in Zion, Illinois it’s illegal to give dogs, cats, or other domesticated animals a lit cigar. You know the type. So see, what he did was this. He went from state to state with long lists of these laws in hand. He broke them systematically and openly. In Pine Island District, Minnesota he passed back and forth in front of cows without tipping his hat, calling the policemen to watch, but no one made one move to arrest him for it. He drove a camel on the highway in Nevada. He slurped soup in New Jersey, and ate peanuts walking backwards in North Dakota. And so on, till he’d broken almost every stupid law he could prove actually existed. No one ever got the joke. No one ever arrested him.
And so finally he was at yet another dinner party, and yet another well-dressed woman was backing away from him slowly. A group of people in the corner was snickering about his adventures over the past few years. So he stood alone by the rows of wine glasses, and accidentally knocked them off the table. And the cop at the party, who’d brushed up on this recently, sprung to his feet and arrested him. In New York City it is illegal to break more then twelve wine glasses in an apartment below 14th st. As he was escorted out of the apartment in handcuffs, his face blushed red with shame. The other dinner guests all laughed. And there’s a moral in here somewhere.

2004-05-09T12:03:00.000-04:00

Ha! Koda and I spent at least an hour and a half making an interestingly illustrated DICKtionary. we are way cool.

also, we terrorized bloomingdales.

This weekend was cool in the sense that i have not opened my AP psych review book once. Go unformed prefrontal cortexes.

I was walking down Houston St. on my way home early saturday morning, and an old man with a cane stumbles out of a building ahead of me, a friend holding onto his arm. I look again, and he's not old exactly, mid-50's perhaps, but something about him seems like hes falling apart. The man stands in the street and his friend bends in front of him to tie his untied shoe lace. The old man staggers three steps back, then falls backward and his feet roll up above his head. He lies sprawled on the sidewalk. I walk up to him and offer him my hand. "Do you need help?" He grabs my hand tightly with one of his. "No, no i'm fine" he slurrs, but he holds my hand tightly and doesn't let go. His friend grabs his other hand and we both try to pull him up but the man is trying to lie backdown, and he is too heavy to lift against his will. His friend turns to me and smiles apologetically. "It's going to take him a while," he says. "He's a poet."
"Aren't we all?" i reply. The man drops my hand and seems to go to sleep on the sidewalk, and i turn and keep walking home.

2004-05-08T02:23:00.000-04:00

ouch...

christ, who knew things could hurt this much?

2004-05-06T19:21:00.000-04:00

It makes me so nervous that this blog has gotten 28 hits since i last posted and only 1 comment. Please, please, please, if you're looking at this, leave a comment somewhere.

2004-05-05T21:09:00.000-04:00

Come into my garden. Walk softly, things are growing beneath your feet. Can you smell the flowers dancing? Come deeper, come closer. Let me tell you about my life, about my wife. My wife had a smile like a single rose blooming, and eyes that glittered like dew. She stretched in the early mornings like a green shoot leaning, reaching, yearning for the sun. I showered her with love. She wilted and withered away and her hair fell off like petals. Walk softly, she is resting beneath your feet. Come into my garden. Let me show you my rosebush. Listen, that flower is singing. Let me show you how many different greens there can be. Listen, listen, can you hear the flowers singing? They’re singing for you. They’re singing sweetly, sadly, softly. They are singing ‘come into my garden, walk softly, things are growing beneath their feet’ They are singing ‘come into my garden let me show you the beauty great sadness can hold.’

2004-05-05T20:42:00.000-04:00

rain is beautiful

2004-05-04T19:04:00.000-04:00

My cat is so clean!

a story, later, perhaps. check back.

p.s.
laura is impossibly cool. (impizzozibly)

x littlejeans x (7:10:04 PM): thizat doeznt sizave yizou anizzy lizzetters!
x littlejeans x (7:10:31 PM): wuz < was : FIZALSE

2004-05-03T17:32:00.000-04:00

I've been having trouble articulating this, but i've been feeling this way for a while now. At first i tried saying i wanted to be a hermit, spending my free periods in the library alone in the back. But thats not quite it. I want to close myself off into a box. I want to shut myself in a bubble. I want to see out, and talk to people, laugh with them or at them, but i don't want to care about them anymore. I'm so frustrated with myself for being consistently hurt by people who barely seem to notice my existance. I feel like i've become invisible, but not by choice. Perhaps if i actively choose to be invisible, this won't be so bad.

2004-05-02T20:47:00.000-04:00

ahhh aps!

*bursts into hysterical sobs*

2004-04-30T22:30:00.000-04:00

why are all high school boys so fucking...highschool?

i demand explanations.

2004-04-28T21:49:00.000-04:00

His blindness eventually came to engulf his personality. It ate it away slowly, leaving nothing more than a disabilities parking sticker plastered on his mind. It was all people saw when they looked at him – the cane, and his eyes, whatever they looked like now (he knew it must be horrible from their sharp intakes of breath). They were, one could say, blinded by it. It was all people heard when he spoke to them. “Nice weather we’re having,” he might say, and they’d hear “I can’t see the sunlight on the leaves.” “The Yankees played a good game last night,” he might offer, but they’d hear “I heard it on the radio.” He might scream as loud as he could “God fucking damn it! Stop treating me differently!” but all they’d hear was “Please. Please pity me.”
And then, as if that wasn’t enough, there were the questions. Endless repetitive questions, like flies droning in his ears, nibbling at his mind. “Do you remember what colors look like from before the accident?” , “How do you cross the street?”. “Hey old man, why do you still have mirrors in your house?” ,“Don't you wish you knew what your granddaughter looked like?”. "How do you dream?"
To which he’d reply: I dream in an ocean of sound and textures. I dream in a wave of shapes and colors. I dream in a dance of light and my dreams are more beautiful than yours.

2004-04-28T18:31:00.000-04:00

"and besides you're probably holding hands
with some skinny pretty girl that likes to talk about bands
and all i want to do
is ride bikes with you,
and stay up late, and maybe spoon."

I have lots of stories in my head and no time in which to write them. Stay tuned, maybe i'll decide that homework is pointless and write one later tonight. In the mean time, umm keep commenting on the old ones. because those comments make me ridiculously happy. Especially anonymous constructive criticism. Thats way cool.

Also, someone must hold hands with me. For a really long extended period of time. Until i get this incessant urge out of my head. Please sign up below.

2004-04-27T23:58:00.000-04:00

all-nighters suck.

in other news: anonymous comments are silly, children. Make up witty pseudonyms.

2004-04-27T18:10:00.000-04:00

Her mother and her best friend had buried her lower body, had built her a mermaid tail out of sand. They’d decorated it with sea-shells and sea-weed, and though she could only barely lift her upper body off the ground to see it, she’d known it was beautiful. A crowd of people had stood over her, admiring it, then left, and she’d lain alone for what felt like hours. She’d lain alone, awash with pure and empty joy, a feeling so blissful it almost hurt. For hours it seemed, she lived deep sea mermaid adventures and listened to the waves. When she opened her eyes, her mother was standing over her, and she’d thought how beautiful she looked from this angle. Like a building, strange geometry, darkened crevices. Her mother said they were leaving and she’d said no, I’m not leaving, not ever. They’d taken pictures, they’d promised to build her a new tail the next day, but still, no, she wasn’t leaving, never. I'm a mermaid, she’d said, I can’t walk. Leave me here, she’d said, I’ll sleep in the sea. But they’d dragged her out of the sand, kicking and screaming, onto her dad’s shoulders and into the air. The sand had poured down her legs, a shell had cut her shin, and her cries had bounced into the ocean and back. I’m a mermaid, she’d screamed, I’ll die on the land.
Now, nine years later, she dug her toes deeper into the sand, trying to feel if this sand felt the same as that sand had. Was this the same beach, she wondered, until she decided that all beaches were the same. She sat for hours, until the waves crept up and unburied her feet.

2004-04-24T21:54:00.000-04:00

Every day at 4 pm, a girl in a breezy summer dress rounds the corner of Church st. and the world freezes. Cars stop where they are, mid-honk, mid-turn. Leaves in the trees stop rustling. People walking stop mid-step, foot poised awkwardly in the air. If its raining that day, the raindrops hover in the air until the girl plucks them from their places, one by one. Every once in a while she puts one in her mouth, delicately. The girl dances, slowly whirling, slowly twirling, through the silent streets. She touches, feels, tastes everything she can find. She flits around each person as they stare blankly ahead. The world stays frozen, every day, in this way, until she disappears once more around the corner at Canal. As the last swirl of her dress disappears from view, the world springs back into motion. Slowly at first, sounds sluggish, movements exaggerated, then faster, then faster, till everything is as it once was. Every day, at 4 pm, the world freezes. No one ever notices.

This day was like any other. 3:58, 3:59, then 4:00, then her foot appears from around the corner and everything else stops moving. Flip-flops and fairy wings, she glides into view. She stops before a couple holding hands and reaches into the air between them to feel the texture of their relationship. It is acrylic. She circles them once, touches their hair, then whirls over to a little girl. She plucks from the air the lisped words that hover just outside the blond child’s mouth and tastes their innocence. It is salty-sweet.

Suddenly, something catches her attention and she jumps back, afraid. Something across the street is moving. A scrap of paper, blown by a wind that, by all means, shouldn’t be there, dances a dance of its own. She darts through the motionless cars. It takes her a minute to catch it, the paper leaping constantly, teasingly, out of her grasp. Un-crumpling it she finds a quickly drawn pencil sketch of herself, and beneath:

“TIME, LIKE ALL THINGS, IS A CIRCLE”

The second she looks up, the world abruptly begins move once more. She is caught in the angry traffic, the jarring bustle of the street. Her face freezes into an expression of frustrated bewilderment. Without smoke, without sound, she disappears forever. No one notices. Somewhere, in an apartment overlooking the street, an old man winks.

2004-04-18T23:44:00.000-04:00

“Wait,” she said. “I have something for you.” He turned and watched as she reached up to the side of her face and slowly pulled off her ear. Underneath, the skin was soft and smooth. She placed it carefully in his hand. It was warm, and he smiled. “This is mine,” she said. “Give it back to me when it is yours.”
He took it home with him and placed it in a purple box. He did not see her again for a year. For a year, he lived with the purple box, never opening it, never leaving it. He taught it how to love when it wanted to, and not love when it needed to. He taught it how to hear the colors in music and the smells in springtime. He taught it how to peel off someone’s skin and see the redness of their thoughts through the words that they were saying. He taught it how to die while still living, and cry without sighing. He forgot about the girl to whom the ear belonged, he forgot about what the box contained. He had never loved anything more.
After a year, he decided it was time. Purple box in hand, he returned to visit her. She smiled when she saw him, and accepted the box silently. Her skin was still smooth where the ear had been. She opened it slowly. Inside was a hand. “This is mine,” he said, understanding. “Give it back to me when it is yours.”

2004-04-15T18:09:00.000-04:00

good god...why did i get out of bed this morning? what a bad plan that was...

2004-04-13T21:23:00.000-04:00

activism, art, and sushi, oh my.

to elaborate: my day consisted of
-meaning to wake up at eight but waking up at twelve instead
-various antsy, stressful, half-asleep college lectures from my mother
-creative procrastination followed by pouring all my secrets onto paper and calling it my short stories hw
-inappropriately giggling throughout activisty meetings and making more enemies than friends,
-going to a gallery opening (of some icelandic pop artist?) with my father and dakota and laughing at a film of various people making funny faces
-which led to cracked out documentary ideas for when we (dakota and I) will live in paris together and make a film of prostitutes making funny faces.
-buying sushi and discussing religion with dakota and dash while eating it
-wherein it was decided that Dash would go to school and tell his friends that his sister said "religion was created by some bored tripped out dudes in the fertile crecent who sat around drinking and smoking" at which point she would get stoned to death by outraged christians.
-wherein it was also decided that if someone went back in time and shushed Mary before she could spout nonsense about carrying god's baby, we wouldn't have all these silly problems in the world.
-wherein it was also decided that Nadja should never ever ever talk about religion in front of anyone who had the remotest chance of getting offended.

and now to actually do some hw...

2004-04-12T15:43:00.000-04:00

Dear Sarah,
I'm sorry my blog looks so much like yours now.
but it is because you are simply too cool.
-nadja

p.s. if people leave me comments, i promise to be happy forever.

2004-04-09T17:33:00.000-04:00

It's kind of amusing that people sit around wondering what i could possible mean by my cryptic one line entries. THe truth is, i don't mean much of anything. I'm just too intimidated by this whole blog thing to write anything. So, from now on, i intend to write an entirely, actively, unphilosophical, unpolitical, and unwitty blog-unless such things relate directly to my life. In fact, i intend to write solely about myself, and if you think this is boring, i entirely agree with you. But its much funner to write. If this is not the sort of thing you want to read, please go write your own political, philosophical, and witty blog, and send me the link-because i'd like to read it.
So anyway, here goes the first installement of Nadja's entirely un-intellectualized daily life:

The mountains in Utah dwarf the cities, and its easy to argue that their enormous presense would loom in people's minds, silently influencing their actions...

oops. this is sounding frighteningly pretentious. lets try again:

I'm sitting in a restaurant in Utah with my mom, my brother, and his friend. The place is called the Porcupine Pub and they have 21 beers on tap. I excuse myself to got eh bathroom, hoping that maybe the food will come faster if i leave. Two waitresses fall silent as i walk in, then whisper to each other and leave. As i'm washing my hands i notice the snazzy blue paper towel dispenser, complete with a motion sensor. I wave my hand in front of it a few times, delighting in how it whirrs and spits out individual peices of paper. Back at the table, i say "Guys, i really recommend you all go to the bathroom, they have this really awesome towel dispenser and..." before i can make it clear that I'm being entirely sarcastic, the boys jump up, excited, and race each other to the bathroom.
My mother laughs. "you've really got to be careful what you say to them," she admonishes, " you underestimate your power. Imagine if you'd said 'Hey guys, i really recommend you all go to hell, they've got this really cool devil with a pitchfork.'"
I laugh, then sit there slightly nervous, not looking forward to their inevitable dissapointed return. My Mother continues to giggle into her beer. THey return glowing, trailing a string of paper towel behind them.
"how was the....how was the paper towel dispenser?" my mom asks. "It was awesome!!!" they shout, almost in unison, and to their confusion my mom howls with laughter.
"this i've got to see!" my mother syas, as she grabs her bag and heads for the bathrooms.
"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," she says later, "in fact, it's the reason i came to Utah in the first place."

wow, i am so impossibly cool, what with the comments and what not. If you leave me comments i'll be your friend for ever. (and we can write things like BFF4ever on our hands in sharpie and it'll be quite the party, just you wait.)

2004-03-31T21:28:00.000-05:00

I want to be in love SO badly

p.s. and i am such a girl! blah

2004-03-10T22:16:00.000-05:00

I wrote a song!

it goes: " i don't want to write this stupid movie review, lalalalala"

2004-03-10T20:53:00.000-05:00

You know whats amazing? i can smoke a cigarette in exactly the same time it takes me to drink a cup of coffee!

......Well I think it's amazing.

also! i just discovered that I have physics reference tables that say herman elliot on them. I feel bad for whoever that person is, because what an awful name.

Maybe i'll get myself a xanga...i feel bad writing such nonsense in a blog. Why do you people read this thing?

2004-03-07T23:04:00.000-05:00

Why does everyone walk their dogs at eleven?
Sitting on my fire escape, smoking, (because what story is a good story without a cigarette?) the street is deserted save one slow black car. An old man, in a black coat, shuffles slowly down my side of the street. A small white dog on a short leash walks with the same gait he does. The man stops and stares blankly as his dog sniffs piles of garbage bags before lifting his leg. They both dissapear into a building below me.
Across the street, a blond woman in a blue sports jacket walks a large dog that leaps happily through the street pulling her behind it. A man walks in the opposite direction with a dog of the exact same size. The woman's dog rushes up to greet the man's, and they nuzzle their heads together. The blue sports jacket stands a respectful distance away, and both humans silently observe. Neither he nor she says a word, but if i could see her face, i bet she would be smiling. Suddenly, with a motion uncharacteristic of the lethargy of the night, her dog takes off with a bound, jerking the woman behind him. The man stands watching her go, for five seconds, maybe ten. Slowly, he turns and walks the rest of the way down the block, dissapearing around the corner. And up on my fire escape, I smile for the first time that day.

What is with my comma use? (and my writing in general...)

2004-01-25T13:11:00.000-05:00

Dear Laura,
Stop procrastinating and go write your english journals.
love,
Nadja

2004-01-17T10:10:00.000-05:00

The PORN bible!!!

Glass vase cello case begins this epic tale. In the beginning there was the word and the word was word. And then from its rib sprung porn, and they had a child named pot. But sometimes they called him pacalolo, and other times, Jesus. Laura takes pictures, of cigarettes floating over keyboards and ashes. This is a the girl in front of the computer screen in the computer lit room, but now we leave this heroine to her cigarettes and move onto the Parisian.
Um Um Just type these lyrics and dance. Ashes in the keyboard symbolize the ASHES OF CHRIST, because our lives exist only for religious symbolisms. But Jesus was just one writer and we are just three lonely writers. Like the three kings of Jesus we are his messengers. But you may be his messengers but you are a nerd. One was a nerd, one was a drunk, and the other was a sex fiend. Make a pulse. This is how I feel about my life. You’re just transcribing. Except that she has a shorthand machine which is way fucking cooler than your dell
I have a butt! I feel like I could just feel myself up and be fascinated for life. I feel like I’m going to be embarrassed in the morning. You actually put it in italics? I’m always embarrassed but don’t be cause she’s such a woman.
If it all came down. You didn’t type magnetic fields. You fail at life! Dfucker! I’m a duhfucker. Hahaha. Well guhfuck you I’ll duck fuck you. This was really hgood at first
But then those goddamn sinners came and they don’t realize it they just keep masturbating. I don’t have anything to feel!
And it all comes down
Ok! Back to the bible! Because we have only a simple message, few words which penetrate deep into the soul. Our message, our one and only message is: “ Why don’t you guess it, you dumb sheet-head.
We don’t know much but we do know this; people need to have sex. Like Montgomery!!! But you should also have sex before you’re married, because otherwise you’ll marry someone horrible, and you’ll still be mean to people, kind of like Montgomery. Although, I don’t think Montgomery has lost his virginity yet. Who would fuck you?
And you might stop having sex because they’re telling you you’re ugly cause you’re OLD.
On the subject of old people, sometimes they’re smart and sometimes they’re dumb. But they are beautiful and they have long silvery hair. When I grow up, I want to have long silvery gray hair.
What comes next? More sex. Because this is after all, the porn bible. It is? Yes. Who knew? You are a friendster.
I am a made to order friendster picture, liar. Achooooooooo achooooooooo achooooooooo hark to the wisdom of Christ! Christ is a stoner, ach-ats why we love ‘im. I am a manly shed. I am a mangy nerd. Huhuhuhu. Manly shed! Because manly is like penis. HOHO! My legs go vagina. TO vagina or NOT to vagina. But that’s not at all the question.
Sinners and saints beware what you do but especially saints because Jesus forgave “them [sinners, but I suppose them sinners is a bit too gangster for our man Christ] they know not what they do, but he never thought to send god the forgive saints too they’re even better than sinners memo. So you saintly men, you may be gay, for Patrick is a saint and he is gay and this all proves everything. You don’t even need blind faith. And if this has skipped a beat or two, check for brain damage or early onset Alzheimer’s, and also sobriety. In case of the latter a dose of pot would be necessary. Well that dose is big. And if that fails, also there is wine. This is the night of porn. It was lesbian, well u know fake lesbian porn, this is a bible.
Suggestion 3333333333: 3 is a good symbol.
Suggestion 3333333334: Do not talk to god if u make fun of the seekers at home and sin a lot. This is more for sinners than saints because god is a good guy but he doesn’t know how to take jokes, and if u talk to him in ur head on escalators because they are finally working and u are so tired that if they hadn’t been u might have cried and u just want it to keep working all that way to the top and apologize for making fun of him, he’ll confer with mr nieves and find out how many times u’ve been late, and not take ur excuse and haul out and STOP the escalator.
Nadja would make a great porn star. Aspire to be sexy, because why not. SEX IS A NECESSARY PART OF LIFE.
Suggestion 3333333335: shorten suggestion numbers
Suggestion 3333333336: Shove it up ur ass.
Suggestion 3333333337: here begin shorter numbers.
Suggestion 1: When u can’t stand up straight sit down, like laura and Nadja but Nadja can’t sit down.
Suggestion 2: because Nadja was anally raped by her math test
Suggestion 3: Jesus, because he’s rich and has pools and Cadillac, that homeboy who wangster bitches fight o’er.
Suggestion 4: break down the big stone fort around ur heart and drain the motherfucking sistersleeping moat, and u know it is because all royal families are incestuous.
Suggestion 5: and stab the alligator.
Suggestion 6: LIE. In bed!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA
Suggestion 7: to see or not to see? Make other people see by posting on blog.
Suggestion 8: this suggestion has been censored
Suggestion 9: Sex is wangster? Gangster? Or asian?
My voice feels raspy, and the cursor keeps disappearing. GODDAMN.
Szzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
She can’t sing when her parents get home.
This is a parable. But also it is a documentary of how the mind works. And this is all about wisdom and suggestions.
Suggestion 10: u knowwwwwwwwwwww
Suggestion 11: Turn it up
Suggestion 12: AND FUCKING LISTEN!!!!
Suggestion 13: crush lists
Suggestion 14: Girl boners. YEAH!

-Dakota, Nadja, And Laura(except laura had nothing to do with the religious parts (only sex))

and pictures of such things:
www.dotphoto.com/MemViewAlbum.asp?AID=1295443
(if you have to log in, it's username Nadja, password blah)

2004-01-10T22:47:00.000-05:00

circles.

2003-12-19T20:07:00.000-05:00

london is friggin awesome.
If you haven't already, please write to me. If you have, please continue.
That is all, thank you.

2003-12-17T17:57:00.000-05:00

Two women, scarves dangling,
are luxuriating in
cobblestones, soft darkness, smokey breath.
Are defiant-street-walking, sidewalks bare.
The cars are all asleep.

One man, chest heaving,
is digging unshaven through black bags.
Eyes gleaming, alcohol breath,
dirty hand holds up triumphant can.
Aluminum on aluminum
resounds through the streets
Three sets of eyes don't see each other.

Fourth eyes, up high, fire-escape smoking.
One girl is no-coat-shivering, late-night-smoking,
unseen-seeing with feet bare on fire escape metal.
Four sets of eyes watch watch watching
in the solitude of the midnight silence.

2003-12-16T17:42:00.000-05:00

Do you read this? Well...obviously. My point is, if you do, you should tell me.

2003-12-14T17:06:00.000-05:00

Someday, i think, my life will make an excellent memoir. Right now, i wish it would all just stop. How many of the people that i know now will remember my name in 15 years? How can everything that seems so important now really be so inconsequential? I wish i could write down every moment so that someday, i could stand back and watch it happen with a fuller perspective. But if i spent all my time writing, there'd be nothing to write about other than "i am writing".
I wish i could say I'd made enough of an impact on enough people for my existance to be justified, but i haven't. In fifteen years, will you remember me?

Also, the snow turned to rain. What happened to Tietel's "Emergency Procedures"?