Sunday, March 30, 2003

Summer Has not Yet Begun

I think that I ought not to be living in this age and time. Really. i should be existing in the late 1800's. I shared this with my mother over the phone earlier, and she said, "Yes, I've always thought that about you. Then, or the renaissance. But maybe you did.(in spanish)" Funny, I never took her to be the metaphysical, other life type. I was reading an article the other day; I don't remember from what magazine or paper. It was talking about time travel, parallel universes, space/time continuems, and earnestly saying that a majority of scientists see it as a definite possibility in the next 100 years or so. Seeing as we have the New York Times, Life, The World, and Seventeen all stacked in the school library, I can't vouch for it's validity, but that would be absolutely incredible. Except for the whole kill a butterfly, change history thing.

Saturday, March 29, 2003

Paper Thin

smile with your mouth closed.
don't open your lips and
stop crying,
less chance of illness in the end.
i can't stuff much more in my ribs
stretch and resist, this is your favorite part for a reason,
but i want to be someone else or i'll explode.
a total waste of time.
it's so cold where you're going
and you're still waiting for blood.
so maybe it's not pumping as fast as it should be,
i'm sorry i had to be the girl of your dreams.
i'm sorry it had to be me.
you'll stay up all night
and wait for your new year's kiss.
put your hands through the door
but my fingers are bleeding two years too late;
put a butterfly knife in your soft fleshy hands and be twelve again with me.
i hope we'll speak again before january.
so both hands now, crush another insect
and expose your teeth
you can't fight this.
but you know where it came from.

Thursday, March 27, 2003

Modest Enough

I'm in an exploding mood. You know, when you feel like you're really not big enough for yourself. And you try and stretch to release that squished down feeling but your arms would have to reach 10 feet above your head to stretch that much. I want to run and jump and yell but it's very quiet and I'm alone so that'd seem almost blasphemous. Breaking the calm that is a drizzly thursday morning.

Friday, March 21, 2003

Blind Spot

Always aware as my ego, transforming from one vague ink spot thought to another, blocking out the sun or making me invisible enough. Always somehow an obstruct. My personal investigation for now as I feel the ego sometimes surge right out, a sudden contracting correction with a mumble down in speech. "Quiet down...easy does it." The same old voice. The same old questioning of my indescribable, prude heritage roots. The inability to adjust the volume, twist the knob, just so. Which antennae is receiving right: a pinky, my left ear, the piece of hair always afloat, something different.

While trying to clap a fruit fly between my hands, the air pressure forced it out in some unknown direction, sparing it's life with chaotic air change. A small reminder, direct zen, without the ever quizzical paradox when trying to think: 'Out not in'.

Wednesday, March 19, 2003


Cashed out for now. Trying to learn something without forcing, without interrupting flow, without viewing normal day discombobulations from being disruptions. Writing somehow bends my thought back on itself in a way I'm uncomfortable with for now, but I've been feeling strangely anyways. An odd yearning for Joni Mitchell, Joni making more sense ever since the after-hours of home departation.

Still trying to gain my footing. Something human was soiled in me some time ago, at the same time that numbers were becoming more omnipotent in my life. Something I'm relearning since this year of my life is all of starting over, sometimes to those who haggle, demand, and sometimes beg.

It's hard. I never quite know what kind of situation I'm going to be in tomorrow. So much death and dying with so much adrenaline attached to it. Anxious. Over small stuff, mostly because slowed old time allows it. Hand wringers. Message leavers. Absent eyes and talkety talks.

Things aren't being marked by words, only feelings blotted among days, dog-earred with fatigue. But some things are so good. Putting together a large puzzle, meeting up with an alabama friend, and playing a game of chess with a 4th grader.

Practical. The practical application after so much time spent living in theory. Learning without the extensive note taking.

Set the brakes and still not stopped. just squealing. But something.

Tuesday, March 18, 2003


Many a day I can't find a face. There's nothing to look for in the mirror and nothing that I really wholeheartedly offer to anyone else. Just an odd half-dissonant glance while walking fast. I know I must seem so queer some days but the disappointment is on my heels.

I had a test in math followed by a lecture on discrete random variables and then a sharing of opinions next in english, language of the languages, about the lovely little war. I felt gut-expellingly ill half-way through it because I think I hold my breath while writing out essay answers and become dizzy and aphyxiated. Anxiety corrodes my stomach when prolonged. Too much testing. And now orange sherbet and the smell of chlorine fume me up.