Live on fire

I wish I could write the soundtrack so that you could read just how perfectly each song lines up with the words I'm typing.

Almost out of the woods!

We all start in the stream

PBR, Katie's house, Talkhouse, off-road Montauk at two a.m. Whoa, a good night!

"I've never, like..." ::awkward trail-off::

The lack of intelligent conversation in the common area is beginning to hurt my head.

--

We are not what you think we are
We are golden,
we are golden.

Como Clay para Whitney

The good things: no Ross school today!, SBS improving my resume, "Lightning Crashes," 40 minutes of cardio, the snows, and asking out loud on the sandwich line, "What would Jesus do?"

a case of the overdramatics

By now I'm tired of the phrase "writing my thesis," but I'll miss it when/if it's ever done.

I also miss:

gymnastics (real gymnastics, not open gym gymnastics), a sense of team, the drive to exercise, physical goals, and people worth being around. Though maybe anyone is something; soon enough, who will be there at all?

In the end, there is one dance you'll do alone

Maybe it was catching the end of Paranormal Activity with the brave children of SBS, or the dreams last night that could happen, but today just doesn't feel right.

I dislike office work (nothing new), but walks through other buildings make me want to stay here. Shut the door. The silence of the engineering buildings, sans the rumble of machinery--doors without windows and old yellow walls--I thought I was safe in Fine Arts, with pianos and violins playing behind doors signaling life--alas, but the top floor yields graffiti on walls and lockers. My footsteps down the stairs. What kind of a home are these?

--

On a happier note, I'm pleased to see that Lena's inimitable observation of "lol...what?" and its meanings, social implications, and relevance on the lives of my friends (especially female) has truly taken off. Lulz away!

Hey, soul sista!

That title's for the ineffable Rachel Lee, whose movie blog I use as the ultimate gauge of a movie's worthiness. Rachel doesn't approve? Then no bueno!

(Buenoz?)

--

She's got the time,
says she's got time on her side.

Can't say I do! Ra!

2.20.2010 (the plot thickens)

Besides hearing Gia's confession that she thought chalk was cheese at age 2, stalking figure skating on YouTube, venturing to Bridgehampton for delicious raviolis, dancing on Chat Roulette in Sean's coyote den, and downloading "Invisible," I've been writing. Tonight the plot thickened and I think from here on out, it may be difficult to find stopping points until I reach the end. The end. Whatever that means. I already want/need to rewrite it.

Good or cringe-worthy, I'm proud that I've been so industrious for the past two months. It's not easy with so many open doors.

Back then I could do it all. But I'm beginning to see that by keeping up this life, some things have to give.

"Getting surgery. Might be paralyzed. BRB."

You have to love being called upon to "sub" when you're dressed for success: sparkle motion gymnastics jacket, bangs that linger too long on the face, and gray sweatpants with deep blue paw prints on the butt. Ah, but the old students giggle and wave at you anyway.

--

Good tidings: one of my plays will be performed here on April 17th. There's love, sex, and local sports. What more could you want?

--

Two songs in my mind the past two days: as I kick into the final stretch, Avenged Sevenfold's "Afterlife." And as I kick it back old-school, "Invisible." I won't even say the artist. It's embarrassing, I know, but it's my life.

Back to times on Lincoln Avenue

WHOA. Can't believe there's a Train song called "Lincoln Avenue" that basically sums up my life on Lincoln Avenue senior year.

(Montauk Highway song coming soon?)

But wait, now Pandora's brought us back to ninth grade: And she carries on without a doubt, I wonder if she'll figure it out...

"Who are you making faces at?"

"Diana's boyfriend!" - Sarah

Valentina wins beam on Valentine's Day, all sorts of ribbons for all sorts of places, Kaylee offers to straighten my hair "at the next sleepover," and a surprise visit from a very special gentleman -- quite the good day! :-D

[your title here]

I should be excited, but instead I'm afraid that time runs short here. Could I have been more?

(This is not a self-apocalypse.)

--

Sean, as the credits of The Lion King roll: "So who has The Little Mermaid?"

GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGOAL

After the middle school lockerroom drama of She made the team and I didn't! How dare she? She gets everything! (ironic, since the speaker was a better gymnast than me at the time and that was all I really wanted), being yelled at by our lacrosse goalie because it was my fault that she couldn't catch the ball?, and those Saturday morning practices that we only went to for the promise of bagels, I left the days of team sports for track and field, cross-country, and of course gymnastics. Saved the passes and slick cuts for gym class floor hockey with Mike and Rob.

Last night's soccer extravaganza didn't exactly ignite a newfound longing for team sports. By the end of things, it was me loitering by the goal while Sean commentated the game. But there were some bursts: a ball to the side of the body, elbows to stomach, ankles rolling and then standing, sprinting after the ball in front of the boys who don't want their RA to write them up.

And today I feel a bit of soreness. I like that, the risk for pain. It's been awhile. For that, I might just go back.

I just died in your flash drive tonight

It must've been something I typed...

1) Tony rocks at life. Why, friends? Because he spent three-and-a-half hours recovering the thesis pages that disappeared with the yank of a flash drive. Now I don't need to cry myself to sleep.

2) Moral: Don't trust Res Life computers.

3) Or anything Res Life, for that matter.

4) Flosef also rocks at life. So hard, in fact, that she doesn't even need a Facebook fan page to show it. Can you imagine such blasphemy, friends? I can!

Storm warning

/occurrance. Meal gym meal grapes stashed in a cup and muffin tucked into bag for the other hours, the ones that will be harder to bear. Move from keyboard to keyboard to call it different scenery. New music from other keystrokes. I miss those girls! I hope I know enough to make them move though my accent's nameless and my writing creeps through. Out the window trees bend in dissonance. Can you hear me? I swear you still do.

El sol de febrero

"A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die." - Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory

Thinking of Empire

The conductor lifts his baton and the orchestra ascends into static.

Green water washes away the nightmare.

A half bit of peace

Now my room is habitable, and I don't need to rush anywhere just yet, and even the sun still shows distantly. The finer things!

--
And I'd hope you might
take me back inside
when the time is right.

I must have heard this song shouted in your car half a hundred times. Summer nights where I sang along. Now I play the old songs for the new words and damn, don't they sing!

Your kind of sentence

I say I dislike everyone lately and then I realize it's not really everyone but those I don't know very well. The ones I know well I like well enough.

I couldn't write more than four lines (besides the drafted e-mail with Flo) tonight because I need to connect. I need to talk to someone. Nothing is wrong. I want the satisfaction of conversation that moves seamlessly through the hours. That's your kind of sentence, I think.

I need someone to say, "This is where you should send it to" or "Let me help you in finding such a place." But yet I feel disjointed. I worry because I'm there one less day, and who knows what could happen in one less day for fourteen (now twelve?) weeks. Perhaps they'll need one less of me. I wonder about my priorities. How do I reconcile all of these things that matter? Do I dare to call them dreams?