There is no end of the world.

Only the wind feels like winter.

Foam fizzes and flies, sun breaks against gray clouds and blue crests, I raise my camera, and suddenly this all ceases. This becomes nothing on a tiny digital screen.

My bare hands hold steady against the wind as my hair flies in front of the flash. Flash, flash, do I even need one? The old man in the gray car holds his camera, a real camera, an artistic one. His luck will be the same as mine. The lens mutes and diminishes, except for the very talented or the very lucky.

But I focus and capture anyway. The Sound leaps, shatters, and recedes.

All is as it should be. There is no end of the world.

I step down from the cement to leave. The old man's face is in his hands.

Does he agree?

As she walks across the dark yard

and I turn on the music that reminds me of long drives for one person, I wonder how it is that two people who love each other can hurt one another so deeply.

And, yet, continue to love. Unceasingly.

Will that be me? I wonder now and then.

nervous

And what if my words were to fail me?

Bright nights and quiet noises.

And my goodness, am I really about to be twenty-one tomorrow?!

Sure, she'll tear up, but she's a fighter.

They'll pull you apart and rebuild you. But they will never break you.

I don't always like when my dreams come true.

Matchbox Twenty comes through, again.

I'd forgotten how much I liked this song or how emblematic it was until 105.1 played it today during practice. My head went up. I listened intently, waiting to hear "shit" bleeped out. Nobody else noticed.

It's sitting by the overcoat
the second shelf, the note she wrote
that I can't bring myself to throw away
and my soul reaches out for no one else but you,
cuz you won't turn away
when someone else is gone
I'm sorry 'bout the attitude
I need to give when I'm with you
but no one else would take this shit from me
and I'm so terrified of no one else but me
I'm here all the time
I won't go away
It's me, yeah I can't get myself to go away
Hey, it's me, and I can't get myself to go away
Oh, God, I shouldn't feel this way, no
Reach down your hand in your pocket
Pull out some hope for me
It's been a long day, always ain't that right
And no, Lord, your hand won't stop it
just keep you trembling
It's been a long day, always ain't that right
Well, I'm surprised that you'd believe
in any thing that comes from me
I didn't hear from you or from someone else
and you're so set in life man, a pisser they're waiting
too damn bad you get so far so fast
So what, so long...

And somehow, sexy.

whisper

There's only one question I'd really like to answer.

Eventually. Eventually.

To Build A Fire

Face down. Red burn. Eyes against the cold. Push through. Push through.

Barely an inch of snow on the ground. A ten-minute walk, and I want to run to warmth. After all, nobody is around to stand witness at 7:50am.

But I walk anyway.

How the hell'd you do it, Jack London?

LAST DAY OF CLASSES

No, really, I am that excited.

PRESSURE! ::thinks of Billy Joel::

It seems that my most "productive" writing comes
when I am forced into it, in the style of AP tests and take-home finals.
"Only spend two hours on this!"
My integrity agrees,
and in all honesty, who would want to linger over such "timed" essays?
This is not meant to be a poem. I just don't have to
fill out line after line of revelatory analysis,
or even sit at the computer any longer (and you know I will!)
and I say,
"YAY!"

No quiero Taco Bell!

After perusing the local newspaper online, I decided I wanted to see a more global perspective on the world. In an LA Spanish-language newspaper, I found....THIS.

ESTO!

I think my favorite part might be the fact that Long Island is called an "estado de Nueva York"; a state of New York.

For the record, I have never eaten Taco Bell. Clearly, that's about to change.

Hemingway, more appealing to me at the moment

"It moved up closer to him still and now he could not speak to it, and when it saw he could not speak it came a little closer, and now he tried to send it away without speaking, but it moved in on him so its weight was all upon his chest..."
-"The Snows of Kilimanjaro," Hemingway

What a relief it is to wake up,
feeling nothing but a little tired.
Even the bitter blast is all right, at least from in here.

And:

'"Love is a dunghill,' said Harry. 'And I'm the cock that gets on it to crow.'"

A step up from The Old Man and the Sea, to be sure!

under the radar

I feel less vulnerable this way. For now.

Ahhh, eff it, I've lost my train of thought for the night!

I shall post this compliment, courtesy of Rachel:

"You'll be like Jesus...Only shorter...And more agile."

el primer caido oficial de la nieve

Sometimes, as I walk down the sidewalk, I have the urge to flip.

sincerity

So many eyes, and when it mattered, I didn't let the glow of their gaze melt me.

I thought I would. They would smile at me, for certain. But behind those smiles I sensed the question: Why are you here? The lean forward, eyes narrowed, hand on the chin stance. Hmm.

I am not hmm, the uncertain nonword. I am not yet who I will be, but that day I stretched my arms and let you see the current draft in progress. There are words. There are scribbles, there are scratches, there are stains, and there are words.

And as I moved away, yet ever before your view, I forgot you were watching. You smiled, in the end, sincerely, because I was and few others were.

I land. The affirmative punctuation.

This is only the beginning.

we write when

other stories become too boring.

balmy december first

My umbrella's long since blown inside out, and as I watch other girls hurry past, hoods huddled to their hair, I let the rain hit and slick and frizz my hair as much as it wishes.

System of A Down.

Kneeling roses disappearing into
Moses' dry mouth
Breaking into Fort Knox stealing
Our intentions
Hangers sitting dripped in oil
Crying freedom
Handed to obsoletion,
Still you feed us lies from the tablecloth
Everybody's going to the party
have a real good time
Dancing in the desert
blowing up the sunshine

You can't call me political, and a good deal of those allusions waft pass me, and I should be researching ETA in "real books" as opposed to random websites about Star Wars merchandise, but I can't deny the catchiness of that song.

She should step more confidently, I think, and I should tell her this.

Counting down again.

I'll never be as enamored of this
as they are.

preparing to go into the cold night with wet hair, as usual

I don't feel the need to write. I only wish to be, right now.

Though I do need something to read besides old ice skating biographies aimed at twelve-year-olds. Anyone, anyone?

persevere ::festive stars and colors that clash with the red and black motif that is Cortland::

I'm spectacularly awake right now, and I enjoy cosmic bowling, particularly when I'm good at it.

Of course, 2am is a lovely time to correct papers.

I enjoy the imagery of Laurel charging the second floor in camoflauge and whacking her residents with sticks.

And I MOST particularly enjoy el hecho de que I'm going home in two days, and how good that feels. Almost as good as my shins. But not quite.

Dance.

I simply don't feel the need to be useful right now!

The life of Laurel, RA-extraordinare:

"haha i almost quit after the first one. some kid got taken out in cuffs and there was a random wasted guy wandering the halls. it was a bad time."

::Fond flashbacks to nightclerking and witnessing various people taken away by EMS. Mmm, knew I was in for a good viewing experience whenever the ambulance rolled up! And the hours passed slowly after that...and I wrote in Spanish...and started to lose all sense of feeling...::

College students are, well, a mess.

This young lady...

...is two today. :-)

Pike's Peak, Blaine Wilson, and S'mores

I speak too much for tired eyes, but somehow I can't stop writing right now.

STD

"I'm happy to tell you that your academic performance at Cortland qualifies you for membership in Sigma Tau Delta, the national English honorary."

...?

Oh, English.

--

Laughter in the living room as Brittany and Emeline cuddle to Elf. (Not together -- at least, not when I was last in the room.) Lights, warmth, love...ah. Home.

Thursday, without 8:30 class.

I wake up later than usual and read in small bursts and think to myself, if I can just keep writing, if I think to somewhere else, my stomach will stop hurting and my breath won't feel strained.

same name

But what to think when you realize that you've begun to lose the old association?

Some nights you're the singer, and some nights you need to hear the lullaby.

Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?

"Can video games educate America?" asks msn.com. I'm going to go with "no" on that one, but if you can enlighten me, please do.

Evidently UPenn does not have classes earlier than 9am. Evidently SUNY does not feel similarly. "Sunny?" Oh, certainly not sunny.

It seems to be a common experience of the literate human to, after a certain point (or perhaps all along the way), become desperate to put words down in order to fulfill the minimum. Wouldn't it be more difficult to write a profound statement on a novel in one sentence? And not be permitted to elaborate?

"If you need help making stuff up, let me know," I say. I mean it sincerely.

As I prepare to do laundry and wonder if I have enough quarters,

I realize for the first time that I don't know, and that it's okay to not know.

Chai tea tastes good, and not for "intellectual appeal." An old book comforts me right now when my mind is unsure of where to run. I'm treading, not thinking, not despairing.

I am going to be something real, I decide.

So if I decide
to waiver my chance
to be one of the hive
Will I choose water over wine and hold my own and drive?
It's driven me before and it seems to be the way
that everyone else gets around.
But lately I'm beginning to find
that when I drive myself,
my light is found.

-incubus.

el Pais Vasco

Leave your name here if you'd like to be an ETA terrorist for my Spanish presentation, or if you are one.

::Quietly hums a love song to herself, content.::

Ice blue but never chill.

Storm/Tides

How long have I been in this storm?
So overwhelmed by the
ocean’s shapeless form
Water's getting harder to tread
With these waves crashing over my head
If I could just see you,
Everything would be all right
IfI could see you
This darkness would turn to light
And I will walk on water
And you will catch me if I fall
And I will get lost into your eyes
And everything will be all right
And everything will be all right
I know you didn’t bring me out here to drown
So why am I
ten feet under and upside down?
Barely surviving has become my purpose
Because I’m so used to living underneath the surface
And I will walk on water
And you will catch me if I fall...


Thank you, Lifehouse.

I dreamt of a large wave quietly and quickly flowing in from the Sound. Water tumbled from the bluffs to meet it, and suddenly it jumped in height and breadth. The sky was a beautifully clear blue, and the foam turned all to whitewater. I'm barely standing on sand. I move to where the bluffs are blocked by a small wood frame, but the water moves me to an open space. A breaker arches over my head, encompassing the sky and my hope. Am I going to die? I am going to die. I close my eyes. I feel nothing.

My body shifts in bed. To the next dream. I live.

writing, even a paper,

is so much more diverting than copying words from the textbook about Mercury. I enjoy creating these blogs today; I could go silent for the next week. I do know that I won't be trying to not kill myself in Spanish 308 tomorrow. Rejoice and be glad, all of ye.

Cre.at.iv.i.ty. Irregular, to be sure, and a contrast to gra.vi.ty.

Hmm...I enjoy the idea of sleep.

"Haunted" houses are highly amusing. "Do you have facebook?" In regards to a hanging body: "He looks like a livejournal type." Very emo, you know.

Snow?

Another life's goal: see an Aurora bourealis in real-life.

Dry now, and fairly content.

::title::

If things must be status-quo, can't it be a positive standard?

The rain is so overwhelming, so thorough as it bounces off of the street, that I could laugh. Headlights spotlight the drilling dance.

It doesn't matter that I'll never memorize every feasible Spanish synonym. I'll never...oh, who knows what else awaits the "nevers."

I'm impressed.

Sipping tea makes me feel intellectual.

I enjoy sidewalk encounters, as well as a subdued feeling of ease. No doom threatens me tonight.

your story to remain untold

Gloomy mornings turn to reflective, slick nights.

My body seems to function more effectively without the mind's inhibitions. "Analysis breeds paralysis," if you will.

Trains pass through the rain.

...

Before gathering laundry from the basement, showering, and "editing a resume," as well as mulling over what to edit in my "creative nonfiction" piece, I'd like to celebrate.

A toast, if you will. To no 8am/8:30am/not even 9:10am classes next semester!

Move along, move along, like I know you do.

on writing classes

All I really want confirmed is that I'm not wasting my time.

something to be said for the sidewalk

I decided to "off-road" it, quite literally. Under surprising blue sky, I've passed twenty minutes and turned towards Waterworks. I leave the sidewalk and run along the cement barrier. Is that vegetation in there? I look up and see that up ahead, the water crosses my path. Revise plan. I start to step off. I then hit the ground, face to grass and knee to cement. Excellent!

No witnesses. I "walk it off" and finish the run. Hmm, I think. Perhaps there's something to be said for staying on the sidewalk.

Yet there's something to be said for the sudden falls as well. They remind you that you're moving. They remind you that you're alive.

...

"You're just a voice!"

I chuckle. Do you wonder what I'm doing? Writing? Or hearing?

Integrity

Feel the cool night air on your skin.

Not all is lost.

You deserve this.

fall insomnia

It's cold and dark. I have an essay exam on Sister Carrie at 8:30 AM. Otherwise I'd be all right with the casual passage of time that counts down the minutes I will sleep. Maybe I can get six hours in.

Children's literature works through the nightmare, according to Ross. I lie in bed and create the nightmare. I can do this because I can trust it will be dispelled. There is waking, as I tread over the creaking wood in a pink house of a tired town.

I trust. I trust. I trust.

...

Flipping Tsuks, blueberry pie, completing a story, conversing with those I love, sunlight, short shorts, rolling our eyes, laughing, living -- I love good days!

karma comes back around

Decisions, DECISIONS!

rhythm is a dancer

((Title has no correlation to post other than that those lyrics are running through her mind.))

Even in the classroom, it's difficult to fathom. Three thousand stars visible in this hemisphere to the naked eye. How many more? Placed by God, swore all the early astronomers. Yet that thought seems more manageable indoors.

"They're imaginary," he says of the constellations. "But aren't they beautiful?"
Like you, I think.

Stars overhead in the deep blue celestial sphere. I haven't a clue where Polaris is (though I get to search for it as homework -- Kelsey, next summer we can truly find constellations on your front step!). How can sense be made? They seem scattered so randomly, everywhere, everywhere. Harvest moon holds steady. So close tonight. Clear, austere grey and white. Amazing.

Placed by God, indeed.

I glance for cracks in the sidewalk, but my soul's on the stars.

spirit manifest as "she"

Short story. Short story. Stort shory.

You can see I'm quite inspired for that assignment.

We speak for hours each day, literally. The "speaking," perhaps, is more literary than literal. I can't handle the phone for too long. It won't allow me to multitask as easily as I wish.

I want to be creative. I watch a boy run around the corner of the house, across the small and tidy green yard. It was the same boy I'd seen another day, engaged in intense plastic gun stalking with another little boy. I'd admired the latter's boldness to seek out his vice.

The sun yet hints of summer as it eases down. Something long and blue is raised in the boy's hand. He turns to the side yard. A blond girl bounces up, red lightsaber in hand. Without shouts or words exchange, plastic hits plastic. They begin to duel.

I watch and, somehow, feel real.

My scientific conclusion for the evening is that getting drunk is likely a good thing for someone as prone to stressing herself out on a daily basis.

But no matter what, I find that I keep missing you.

I also, however, find that I miss cars coming towards me on the road. Not all missing, you see, is negative!

Blurred green hills above leaning, crowded roofs. Beautiful sunsets that I evidently keep missing due to class and meeting obligations. Screw obligations. Real people -- adults, children, grandparents who perhaps have nothing to do with this place besides their coincidental location. A weirdly comforting glow of streetlights on cracked sidewalks, chipped paint, and chattering drunks, perhaps because I have company. But I'd be all right solo.

Here.

One word,

...thanks for deleting it all, Blogger!

::slap::

I should

be researching "Coyuca" to discuss tomorrow in Spanish Peninsular Civilization at 8am, get ready for bed, maybe shower (hmm...can that be postponed?), do work for every class, sleep, write things that are far more interesting to read about than my stream of consciousness, stop thinking about chocolate cookies, be more sociable like a "typical" college student, brush my hair/teeth, move stuff off of my bed so perhaps I can lay me down in it when I'm done writing, plot meals that I can actually cook and move away from sandwiches/salads/pasta with vegetables, de-stress, and end this blog.

But you know what? I enjoy writing more than any of these things. Besides, perhaps, those cookies.

cool, grey days

(because "grey" is much more romantic than "gray," and I support romance) are good for either inspiration or no motivation. As it happened, I was tired much of the day but wrote a poem inspired by my lunch. Evidently, I have some form of food fixation. Hey, if it works, I'll take it.

After an outpouring of writing, I take a step back. I let it rest and look at it the next day. It's easier to chop away then. Other times, I'm surprised to see that I like what I read.

Sometimes, after these bursts, the rest extends. I'm not sure where to go. I started a story in May of 2005, wrote a few pages, and then ceased. For this entire year, however, the main character stayed with me. I watched her shrug off clingy boys and laugh at criticism. I saw her begin to care. I continued her story. It's not nearly done, nor have I any idea of how it will end. But she's going somewhere, somewhere that I didn't anticipate, and I'm willing to follow.

remain true

I've spent a solid two hours writing the second of two "short-shorts," the other written on a whim Tuesday night. I'm not entirely sure if it works (or if either works, for that matter). I linger longest on the conclusions, especially when I did not anticipate such a turn of events. I enjoy that leap, though. The story has life that you were not aware of. Instead of conceiving it, your only choice is to follow it and hopefully remain true.

Bird by Bird, which I began today, makes me realize -- I am not incompetent for staring at the computer hopelessly! That it's difficult to actually sit there and write! That it's okay to feel both helpless and unmotivated! So I took her advice and wrote a bit -- an opening -- a starting point that I may scrap entirely later, but will remind me, at least, of the idea that I want to pursue.

It's been a day of meaningless writing -- the hasty scribble of Spanish words, answering silly questions in "full sentences." The writing progressively runs more carelessly. Perhaps letters will be dropped here and there, too slow to catch on. Sentences turn to a swollen stream of cursive words nearly linked as one. For crying out loud, I don't care anymore! But I will at 8am if this paper is examined by eyes less forgiving than my own were at this hour.

People holler and cheer outside. I write what humor I can to far away friends and boyfriend. No sadness, simply a bit tired. If I could, I would write creatively all day long. But I need those other things -- classes, assignments (regardless of language), practice, bed -- to make me value it more. To channel it effectively, if I can ever get time to let it run.

after an ode to peanut-buttery-goodness

I love seemingly random sources of inspiration, as the title suggests. Any object -- anything at all -- can be elevated to that higher level (or lowered, perhaps, depending on one's perspective/cynicism) of human communion.

let us kill the spirit of gravity - nietzsche

I don't believe that good writing must take itself seriously all of the time.

I dreamt last night of what I'd considered for the short-short. Surfboards, ocean, boy. But this boy was older and the waves grave and choppy on a gray afternoon. They're breaking and I know you'll want to get in. I'm nervous, but I'll try. Then I woke up.

The vision I'd had in mind held glistening waves and too-bright sun. Hope, but perhaps in the end, too much.

a new direction

So now I can use my blog for academic purposes? Sweet.

I'm excited for Creative Writing, in all honesty. I need that motivation to create an ending, to fulfill the character's promise. Perhaps it's because I often find my character's life running alongside mine. The ending to that story, whether good or bad, has yet to be realized. I hope, at the very least, that it's interesting.

rising fog

I must see my friends and family ere I go. I must pack. Really. I must construct artwork/collages to decorate my room with the people mentioned before. I must run. I'd like to write. I will, again, but I don't know if I can now. Not enough time. What pictures? What time? ((If anyone feels they would like to randomly bestow me with a gift, festive, homemade decorations and collages would be very welcome!)) An internship in the city next summer? I'm so attached to wherever I stay for too long. You all give me good reason to hold on, no matter where I go.

Approaching 1:30 am. Fog rises, nestling the streetlights. They glow for me, serenely blurred. The road is clear. I am alone. I am calm.

Down the road, a sudden and silent dense cloud in the black and orange night. I drive. Red lights appear. Without a whisp, clarity returns. I always knew it would.

learning to surf on a calm sea

Sunshine in the day and cool, almost-fall-esque nights with the hint of smoke in the air feel so right. Ice cream fits any season.

It's coming, it's coming...it's passed. I leap to my feet and immediately jump off, laughing all the way down. Real waves sweep other shores today. Still, it's pleasant to paddle under the sun, floating on this fiberglass chunk that slowly becomes more familiar. We balance each other. The swells turn natural instead of unsteadying. Bright sun belies a cool breeze. Our teeth chatter. We float on anyway, determined (and tired).

I ponder not life, love, or lack of sleep, but when my next chance will come. Does it count if I really haven't caught a wave? Because I'll gladly try again another day. Summer, you feel so right.

as i roam,

I believe that if people took the time to walk about a half hour each day -- without rush or destination -- in a peaceful place, their quality of life would improve greatly.

yet to exhale

Still the recurring dream of pressing the brake and finding the speed won't cease. Still tearing gaps, mindlessly yet deliberately.

I miss competition more and more.

But whatever you call this line, I'm living it.

las manos de Dios

I have climbed the highest mountains

I have run through the fields...

conditioning

As much mental as it is physical, and I love it.

"What's next?" I ask eagerly.

"You're crazy!" they exclaim.

I'm just as sore as the rest of you, and my muscles begin to tremble. But I need this. I need to push until I feel ready to collapse. I don't collapse (well, maybe sometimes, but not for long and usually from laughter). I recover. I become stronger. If you work hard now, it will come more easily later. Don't you see?

Twenty minutes down, twenty-five to go...that's like an easy day of cardio.

Thus she breathes against the humidity, swipes at webs and insects, and continues to tread over the dirt and sand.

And when you take a step out of the technical gymnastics mentality, aren't handstands just so fun and whimsical?

you're beautiful

Real sun, not scalding, by day. They cheer my name at night. I look much better than I feel or believe, I realize. I want you to watch me and be moved by my movement. Running water. Sushi in peace. We can spend as much time together as we wish and still find new ways to laugh. Stars and stories on the steps. Online warfare. Blue eyes. A shoutout to ANGELA for reading this! (Team America...spreading our influence to other parts of the U.S. before our next reunion.) Highways and stories of that first kiss. God didn't want me to die today. It's a warm night and I do not know what will come to be, but I do love this, now.

"Well, I always knew they were nuts."

Simple yet spontaneous adventures make me glad.

"Do you think they'll give me whipped cream in a cup?" In the thirty second gap between phone calls, Kelsey finds money. "If that's not a good enough reason to stay fit, I don't know what is!" Time and good laughs with a wonderful chiquito, and of course there is no fifth wheel! Afterwards, the presence of an old friend -- the UNGEHEUR...of Long Island Sound.

And the Spanish soap opera, no matter how many times I've watched it, never fails to make me laugh.

An old but wise quote: "You know you're a true gymnast when what you're doing is better than a rollercoaster."

(Looks like I'm putting my emo songwriting career on hold today.)

blind but now i see

Once limited, but now I can run.

I like myself best at this time: driving home in the afternoon after a run. Sun illuminates green and blue. Music plays on the radio -- random, yet exactly what I wish to hear. I am alone, and unperturbed. All is well.

As it should be.

Today's revelation: I MISS TRACK! (My 4x100 champs-high jump crew-4x800 know what's up.) Always memories I can reflect upon happily and safely, for that was what it was.

i love nearly drowning while driving

Apocalypse Now (or yesterday, or two days ago, whenever this publishes).

Sometimes I get tired of working hard. Sometimes the desire wans to force this image in my mind into a physical manifestation -- for at such times, it would take force. Sometimes I would like to eat chocolate and not mind at all.

Hey, if strap bar giants and dancing to Pirates of the Caribbean are what keep me going right now, I'll take it.

--

Tell me, is this all that you've dreamed?

simplicity

Warm blueberry pie, strawberry ice cream, calmness on the Expressway, rolling down the dark road, humid and salty night air, gray but not ominous sky, feet bounding comfortably over roots, a drip of blood in exchange for a climb, reunions with close friends, curls, art in the newspaper, contemplation, ideas, a smile, and always ending the day with a wish for a good night.

wouldn't it be nice if we were older?
then we wouldn't have to wait so long

boy & girl

We're sore and disjointed and displaced. We try to stretch and bump into each other instead. Sleep. Sleep would be good indeed for the mortal mind and soul.

You tease me. I tell you to stop. I kiss your cheek. You lick my face.

And you know what, boy? I love you.

a new circle

Amazing things can happen.

Not all is impossible.

shift in direction

I've decided that it's worthwhile to pursue things purely because they're interesting.

I like to make it interesting for this small sect of the world while I'm here. Make you laugh, give support, and quietly exit without regrets. Most of you young ones will not know that I ever had them, or wish to avoid them.

SMILE.

1:30am

1) I'm still too wound up, too stressed, to truly call this summer yet
1a) though parts of today came close
2) I need something to do with my life besides write three blog entries in approximately a one hour period.

when I do not wish to fall alone

According to Ross, you may sleep with others as a small child and again later in life. Why this period in-between when we must sleep alone? Why is it a fall into sleep? Why is it permissible only in the secret places, "away," when it cannot happen often?

I would like to have the confirmation at the end of the day -- despite mishaps, despite failures -- that I am doing something right.

dover beach

The stars and sky are not impossible tonight.

Gentle tide and barely a breeze. Gray whisps of cloud soften the shoreline.

Head back on sand. The stars stand infinitely, they say, and I believe it. But tonight I could count them all. Tonight my fingertips could brush that cool blue and it would warm beneath my touch.

Is it this small sliver of beach which makes the universe fathomable? Is it the company? Because I could live in this night, content and trusting in all that I cannot see, but believe.

"I don't understand a word you just said"

The older I get, the more I see how crazy people are.

Adults, peers, their worlds and logic reel far from mine. But hey, as long as it's not life-threatening, or perilous to my own sanity, it's certainly entertaining.

"early night because I'm tired"

1) I always stay up later than I planned to, and
2) I cannot write without hope

coach, noun and verb

Nobody's looking over here, so they talk to me in hushed voices. They trust me; either that, or they need someone to fret to. "That was so scary! I don't want to do it again!"

"The first time's the worst," I console. Well, not always. "It's good for you to learn it. It'll help you."

"Ughhh..."

"Make yourself do it."

I tell them exactly what I've been told. I may not have believed it at the time, as they doubt now. But it was true, all of it.

i'll use my own title instead of a song lyric, if that's at all enticing

"...2 am and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake..."

I turn on the engine and immediately hear the song. I nearly laugh, turning up the volume. I'm relieved. Coincidence.

We have no answers, but we ask the same questions. The song repeats. The story is reread. They may try to explain, but they cannot answer fully. And it's all right, you see, because one line can be sufficient -- enough to know that someone else has articulated the very same question.

The question will continue to be asked. In chalky gyms, under bright lights, in dark dorms, behind the wheel, next to someone else, in a tired town that should just try again, I wonder who else wonders.

Sometimes I love to be alone and sometimes I can't stand it. I carefully craft my path and beg for someone to direct me. I still wait for those directions, likely the result of a series of appearingly unrelated incidents and words. You don't know either, yet somehow we help each other make sense. Realization; if only for a moment.

I will take a venture here. I say that one should stand by what one loves, because of and regardless of everything.

cold beer; hot lights

One of the best kinds of nights.

I am glad I went away to college.

Why Emeline is Jesus

I am devoting a blog to Emeline because:
-She is Jesus
-She can walk on water
-She sings loudly and takes revenge on all the loud people in the hallway
-She respects my crankiness
-She is a nasty!
-She also understands odd food cravings and planning one's meals in advance
-She peruses the Cortland ASC dining services webpage to look at the daily specials
-She braved that snowy trek to Syracuse to pick up Brian
-She loves free bread samples from Price Chopper as much as I do
-She understands the glory that is RASCAL FLATTS (before I did, hehe)
-She breaks into spontaneous dance parties with me, whether they're in 110 Hayes or on a pool table...
-She procrastinates via AIM stalking/picking at her face, as I do
-She will streak out of the shower to change the song playing
-She was my athletic trainer last year and massaged my knee this year
-She doesn't mind when I lie on her bed and try to cuddle with her lamp
-She is living in the room next to me in the PINK PALACE!
-She rocks out to "Mad Season" with DJ Di from 8-10 on Friday nights
-She has, on two occasions, DEMANDED that I go out to the swim house
-She lent me Spanish children's books
-She recognizes that Christina provides a great wealth of sexual-related information
-She empathizes being perpetually annoyed by certain...people
-She hates waking up in the morning more than I do
-She donates old Limited Too clothes to me
-"Diana, that's not a paper...that's a BLOG!"
-muwahaha, little does she know..
-She also partakes in random activities such as lacrosse and "racquet ball," and by that, I mean randomly hitting the ball around and doing handstands
-She knows what's up with those conversations with your parents where, try as they might to probe, there is simply NOTHING exciting/new/interesting going on in your life
-I heard the song "Breathe (2AM)" (or maybe I reversed the parentheses) in the shower and thought of her and the beginning of our year together!

YAY! ILY!

the way you know how

"Dance it like you know how," she says.

"You can do it!" they call.

Put your feet on the beam.

I won't let you down.

Oh, baby, this is perfection.

there's another world inside of me

that you may never see.

There are some things I would never do. I won't share specifically. But someday, you may find yourself in the same position, with similar contemplations, and you will know what I mean.

This is my reaction.

"I was almost perpetually in contemplation of them"

There is a disparity between what they want to talk about and what I want to think about.

squinted eyes

Sunburn feels so good.

--

Up, down, racing, catching itself, like the mind before sleep.

But I'm awake now (should be, at least). Do I leap from word to word? I don't know what you wish to hear. Do I give it resonance you may miss? Or will you say, "Slow down, I want to hear it all?"

Applause.

I like this.

catharsis (i like the word; it fits)

The body is amazing.

You can barely walk without noticeable effort. How will you do this?

You feel you can't. But you will. So you can.

My mind races. I write, erase, consider, rephrase, rearrange, and write again.

I love this.

Attitude is indeed contagious.

fairy tales and real-life application

The human goal: To make meaning in and of an absurd universe.

Are we wanted? Will we be loved despite age or be replaced? Others in the class may sleep or look at one another skeptically, but I understand. Fairy tales, so basic in good contrasted against evil, address those base troubles which haunt and taunt us through every step of life.

Women may feel alone, but their feelings are not singular or irrational.

Your face, peaceful as a child laying down to rest. Why do you remind me of a child in this moment? Why does it move me so?

Because you place yourself before me with entire vulnerability, and you know this, and at the exact same time, you cannot conceal your joy.

ne'er far from here

(beware the ides of march!)

Clouds whisked away in face of the moon's confident gaze. Her brightness blinks in my eyes as I close them.

Cold winds. Could this be fall? Spring is on the way, I recall, and then they do not chill me.

It gets better.

a fiction-worthy wind

I feel nostalgia for a place I've seen briefly and a life I've never lived.

It must be damn painful in that mind, but so intriguing for one outside.

In my world, it's time to finish a paper, get this knee to stop cracking, and wander for a meal eventually.

How...anti-climatic.

I sometimes wish your stories -- selections of them -- were mine. But each to his fate. I may live vicariously through others, but I may be able to translate those words into Spanish.

Hm.

it occurred to me to ask

"Who knows how to play hopscotch?" I ask.

Do children still play hopscotch? I don't know.

Most eagerly raise their hands. "I do!"

In Friendly's last night, as we laugh loudly, a mother walks over with a tiny girl. "She says she recognized one of you as her gymnastics teacher."

Usually running around the gym heedless of anyone's instruction, the child's face is stiffened with embarrassment, but her eyes are intense.

"I have her!" I say.

Games may change. Feelings, never.

sometimes you can't make it on your own

I don't know what's wrong. But I suppose it could be worse.

Snow falls. At least it's vertical today.

I didn't fall. Does that make a difference?

and...

I love her style!!!

intimidada

You can give me any reason to cut me a bit of slack. I'll logic away any of your worries. The same never seems to work for me.

I want this so badly, but I step in front of the people and now I feel unworthy. Embarrassed of myself, almost, as if I need a disclaimer -- this isn't going to be all that exciting, but it will be a challenge for me.

I've never felt that way before. I'd always been eager, despite anyone else's skills, to showcase. Especially last. I will move in a way that you can't.

Except now I'm uncertain. Now I doubt. Now I'm intimidated and not sure if I deserve this, despite how much I've worked for it and continue to work now.

You have to believe me when I say I don't choke under pressure. The adrenaline fires me up. Lately, it's receeded when I needed that final push.

Another chance. To dissemble again?

Tell me why you believe. Maybe I'll believe, too.

transcend

Romantic literature strikes at a time when inspiration and motivation are wanting.

I'd almost forgotten that simple sensation of looking and feeling, without other responsibilities crying at the rim.

Nature provides us, perhaps, with everything - food - resources - inspiration - religion - shelter - simplicity.

I am neither a hippie nor an environmentalist, but I tend to shy away from extravagance. Rarely makeup, some of the same clothes from middle school (hey, they still fit), content with the same technology as long as it functions, always enjoying genuine intellect and wit. I want to like you for what you are, not just for the arts you create.

I would like to walk under the moon on a summer's night in gentle silence, and look up at that with the same name as mine. I want to feel a connection between myth and myself.

Overwhelm me, stars, sky, waves, breezes. Deserts, mesas, oceans, lightning, woods, grass, I have seen you all. But have I lived them?

We could spend the night, watch the earth come up

Without noise, without needless chatter, without need to exist. Just for a night. Just for a moment.

wanderlust

I should spend my free time in writing, really writing. Perhaps tonight! For now, this shall suffice.

I prefer fiction and retrospect. I do not spontaneously react in the wrong way. Ay, girl, haven't you learned from the last time(s)? She's always sorry, even before she's opened her mouth.

I want to roam and run on other lands under this same sun. ((Well, the sun isn't actually out in Cortland at the moment, but one can imagine.)) I need to see another life and live it, for a time. That's what brought me here. That's what bears my mind elsewhere, as much as it frightens me.

Too much, never enough. I enjoy those moments where I feel I am right where I should be, and that neither my words nor dreams shall fly astray. Like with you.

My mind's filled with words right now. Images, interpretations, the significance of a line abruptly ended. Did I solve that riddle? Even if I did, more follow.

I step outside into the brightness, into a world that feels somewhat less satisfying, a little more shallow, before I reassimilate completely.

Words. Real, powerful, heavy, light, and all with meaning. This world makes me forget, sometimes. Silence is not the ending, not at all. This is a feeling.

I don't know if you'd entirely understand.

AAAAHHHHHHH

What the eff am I going to end up doing with my life?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

On the plus side, at least I can do a floor routine.

::would like to run outside and scream a little, into the night::

::at least I know I'm not alone in this sentiment::

Back in high school, I figured that whatever I picked, I could do. Now, I'm not so sure. Or maybe it remains true, this rare sense of self-belief. I just need to manifest it.

Up, up, and awayyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!

color

I take notes diligently, read the assigned texts, and wonder all the while what the hell I'm going to make of myself.

Class participation: pretending to give a damn, but in fact talking for the sake of talking. While your hand is raised, the only thing you notice is that the person speaking hasn't yet made your point. Then, of course, your point is shot down from time to time. But you'll try again anyway. Gotta maximize that twenty percent of your grade, besides making it to class and looking alive. ("Looking," of course, is not synonymous with "being.")

Do I want to be the one to make superior analyses? Do I wish my mind had made that connection? Certainly. But arrogance irritates, even if it is not intended.

I'm sure that many years, in many classrooms, people have prepared for a cozy nap as I raised my hand.

But color makes the difference. Swirls and splashes. Use big words only if you don't fear to say, "Um, like..." when "me and her..." I may be a nerd indeed, but I want to shake you sometimes and bring warmth to your stoic gray, even if your new vigor breeds a mistake or two. You'd be far more bearable.

I wonder what you dream at night as you ritually lay down at the appointed hour (right to the minute, I'd guess). Do you even dream in color? When you point to life experiences, what have you to show? Was it something you read elsewhere?

I read and say, "Damn, I wish I wrote that."

I want to live. Those lines you pour over and analyze, I want those to someday be the ones I wrote.

Here's to the cone-stealers, the pecan-square-thiefs, the random drivers, the ones who pump up the music and sing out of tune, the ones who give a damn for each other but not for limits of time or space or possibility. Here's to the stories we weave each day, the laughs and commentary we find amidst the most mundane circumstances. The horizon tantalizes. No ending here.

double time

Or half time? I can't decide which. Double practices makes each day feel like two. Has it only been a week?

I do know that I have odd bread cravings. Rain (rain? Why rain?) pours. Just yesterday, the sun peered out and I squinted my eyes. Not today. Ice doesn't feel cold enough when the throb burns hotter than usual. Funny things have happened, pictures snapped, comments swapped. Everything is better than a year ago, that is for sure.

Gray seeps in some days. Sometimes I shift in my own skin, not sure if it's all right or what to do with myself. Orange juice and milk freeze by the morning. I'd like to be clever, but I'm not always inspired.

But color will return.

In the meantime, I close my eyes. In the darkness, I see you.

tracing

If I hear these chords, I can imagine your willing ears. If I sing these harmonies, perhaps your voice will ring with mine.

I'll learn who you are, the person behind the words and laughs and snips of song lyrics.

You will read, write, witness. Will you imagine my eyes running before you over these words? Will you know me?

I would like to follow the path of someone strong and skilled. Leave your traces and I'll learn the way.

Someday, hopefully, these will become a part of who I am. Who I will be.