3.4.07

Everywhere you look in this house, there are two couples behind closed doors, two pairs of crutches, and two girls with compression wraps.

I woke up at 12:30am

or so, as everyone returned to the house. Emeline was back from Buffalo, gymnastics trophy in hand. "Are you asleep?" she asked, peering through the cracked open door. I wouldn't go so far as to describe myself as conscious, but we carried on a conversation about notorious out-of-state individuals who will forever be fabled in these parts.

It seemed like a good opportunity for a bagel and fruit punch-flavored water (100% Vitamin C, you know). A couple of coconut-filled Hershey's kisses, conversations, and peer-editing(s) later, I now consider sleep, wondering:

Why haven't I thrown away all of these nearly empty water bottles?
How do three people tear their ACL's in one week?
I should sweep the floor.
I should probably go to the bathroom.
I should probably organize the books on the ground.
I probably won't.
What will I do at home when I can't do full gymnastics? (Answer: Be creative.)
I like how the intense-looking bruising is nowhere near the fracture.
I'd like to be near you.

Corey Union

"...It was a competition to see who was hotter," Brittany reflects.

"Clearly, you won," Tanya and I say in unison.

High five!

"If I were on American Idol,

I'd dedicate my song to GTB," I say.

"Me, too," agrees Tanya. "I'd sing 'Sexual Healing.'"

sing this song

If I turn into another

Britt and I struggle through another night of our middle-class existence.

the better part of me

Perfectly content.

In that moment, untouchable.

sigh.

Well, you know, it could always be worse. Like if I died from taking three Tylenols...thanks, Em!

Good friends.

It'll make for a good story, I think, that Emeline helped push my car from where it helplessly spun in the Wash Tub parking lot, shoveled off the driveway entrance with me (the Tub should give us free laundry for doing them such a service, I feel), directed my reverse driving, found a parking spot in an apartment lot across the street, and followed me there in her pajama pants.

Our hands are numb inside of our gloves and our skin screams from our faces in the wind, but I do have ice cream for her.

In honor of 2-13,

Why Staying Together is Easier Than Breaking Up.

According to social scientists Angie Baby and DJ Di, a break up entails...

-redecorating the entire room. Down go the photos, frames, cute mementos, and random objects that you've accumulated.
-debating whether or not to hide or destroy said photos and items.
-revamping the profile. Making sure that you appear to be having the time of your life.
-besides late at night after a night with the girls, when "What Hurts the Most" lyrics appear on the away message. Crooked face optional.
-to read or not to read the other person's away messages? Remove from Buddy List? Block?
-what to do about Facebook? "It's complicated?" What if the other party doesn't agree? De-tag photos? Delete person as friend? Leave relationship status blank? "Looking For" = "Random Play" and/or "Whatever I can get," but is that too desperate? To poke back or not to pack back?
-and, of course, GTB will found out, sing your away message to you, and taunt you.

Trust us, kids, it's easier to stick it out.

"'My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns, hon'...or is it h-u-n?"

"I thought those were the German invaders."

"Weren't those the Visigoths?"

"Maybe both?"

"And you don't have an anaconda."

"That's what you think."

Only two and a half years later,

I realize that the purpose of college is to invert the word home beyond recognition, making you feel comfortable and disjointed wherever you find yourself.

It's Friday already??

Don't let anybody take away your power.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer...

And now I feel that everything will be okay.

otra intro

I will come to your waters and stand still, lest my breath cause a ripple. Your light shimmers over them. You move and shadows bend for you.

You are…you are a Phoenix, says the shirt beneath your blue-and-red vest.

You’ve yet to stare at me coldly, and I am encouraged. You’ve also yet to stare at me with recognition. But I am not deterred. I’ve returned to the line for your register four times over the past week.

Re: Evolution of Writing lecture, 1.31.07

Is artificiality natural to humans?

Por supuesto.

Why else would I write and edit and reconsider if I didn't think of the effect it may have on someone else?

Why Sunday Was Awesome:

"I was checking 'Word is Bond' the other night..." I love you, Angie Baby!

-It was somewhat warm in Rhode Island
-I COMPETED...
-and did not fall
-on the floor
-or
-off of it
-in "the catsuit"
-and screamed to the dehydration point and back again
-and then, despues de muchas risas,
-we arrived home, and I found an elusive odd spot to park in.

This likely won't come as a

surprise to anyone who knows me, but I'm glad to be busy, glad to be rushing quickly through the slush, repeatedly checking assignments and logging into about fourteen different webpages in the name of "Writing in Cyberspace," heading to practice and back again, thinking doing thinking doing thinking doing. I like when they're equal and towards a common, positive goal.

A common, positive goal. I was focused, calm, and clean, without rush or struggle. Continue, sigue.

And I'm pretty fascinated by the fact that iTunes actually organizes all of the music on your computer for you.

Snowflakes.

And what I really mean to say...

is something that I'm not sure what to say about yet. Or think.

It's what I want.

Exactly.

Can I make it happen?

I believe so.

"Emeline - I forgive you as long as we go to Doug's sometime in the nearish future."

"Diana - I apologize for borrowing the journal for academic notes."

"Weird" seems right enough.

I'm weirdly glad to be back in Cortland. I just didn't want to be there anymore, in that mindset. Now I'm comfortably tired to the point where I can't think too specifically. It's nice.

There are things and people that I will have to let go of, or should let go of, or will have to think of letting go of, and what if I don't want to?

The bed's no longer a mess.

The quest:

To write a *meaningful* story.

English is a funky language.

Whilst speaking online
to Emeline
this afternoon,
I noticed that
"good"
and
"food"
do not rhyme.
(Nor do
"online"
and
"Emeline,"
if you know her.)
("Rhyme" could
almost, though.)

What "shouldn't" be said

If you begin a story with, "This might make me sound like a bad person" or "It seemed like a good idea at the time" or "I probably shouldn't be telling you this," then you've got my full attention.

This has the makings of an early night.

Even my alarm sounded too tired to be set.

your stories have gone stale

Glad you had fun, kids, but Saturday night's over.

Emeline is back in the country!!!

Emeline's mom: "Tell Brittany not to fall on her ass."
Tanya: "OMG! I have to call Brittany!" ::calls Brittany about three times and yells this to her. It is questionable if Brittany has even answered her phone::
Emeline: "My mom is going on the wall!"

"I reallllllly need to pee!" she calls.

"I'm almost done!" I say calmly.

My teeth, of course, need to be thoroughly brushed. The water certainly needs to be turned on. Hot and cold. A little stronger. There we go.

I listen to the stream and smile a foamy, devious smirk.

"You make that look effortless,"

and if only the thought process could follow in the same way.

It always gets better. It just doesn't seem so at the time.

. . .

She is not impressed.

!!!

Dear Diana,

This letter is to inform you that your submission to Toasted Cheese has made it past first reading and will be read by the full editorial board this month. It is not an acceptance letter. You will be notified of our final decision in early February.

In the meantime, keep writing!

This picture is awesome

10:10 pm

A sweet cop-out: I've ended this story by using a line previously appearing in the story. Oooh, yeah.

The stars flickered gently in the windows. So many stars.

(Fun with italics!)

There's a bit of a fog about me. I could call it a dream, but if it were so, I would not be here.

[He] had always seen himself floating above the aurora borealis, above the ice caps, in soundless serenity.

in transit

"It was always like that: she was gone and other people were where they belonged. She was going up or down stairs; other people seemed to be settled somewhere." - Toni Morrison

99 Bananas

Why not one more to make it one hundred?

Happy New Year!

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.