The Problem With Translations

There are perfectly good recipes for treats rotting in my head; I just don't have it in me to make the things I'd like to make. I don't even have it in me to eat them. Not alone anyway, and I am quite positive that Adam won't want to. What do normal people do in these situations? Drink or smoke or fuck or cry it out of their systems? I am never quite sure what to do with myself, vices such as eating too many sandwiches and checking my many accounts every five minutes just don't really have the same affect. Intentionally or not, I'm not caring much for anything. It occured to me today that Emily Bronte did the same thing, apathy as protest, and I was so excited, until I realized that she's probably not a very good role model.
Someone offered me a hug the other day, and I was silly enough to decline. What was I thinking? Hugs don't just grow on trees, after all.

A certain event has been on my mind for the past few weeks. Everything that was ever said sounds so different now. I replay things back in my head and am suddenly aware of a secret language that I wasn't aware of before.

I don't know if it's sadness just so much as a feeling of being utterly worn out.

Woke Up With A Craving For Death and Chocolate.

I dreamt that I happened upon some book that proclaimed that there are a good many things that the reading public doesn't know about Emily Dickinson. Her tattoo, for instance.
Only after I woke up I somehow didn't realize it was a dream right away, so I've been wondering how in the world Emily Dickinson had managed to get a tattoo and where I could find some sort of rendition of it.

And then it got even worse: I started thinking to myself how really lovely it would be to have the same tattoo as Emily Dickinson, surely it was something very pretty and birdlike and obscure, and I could always add something to it. Perhaps a line from one of her poems.

I did a search on Google but only found some fleeting mention of a boy with a tattoo of Emily Dickinson burned into his backside, which isnt quite the same thing.

It was about twenty minutes ago that I realized I'd made the whole thing up, and I feel a little disappointed. But, now I'm wondering what other crazy things I come up with that I never end up even realizing aren't true.

The dream was no accident, though. Lately my head has been full of Emily Dickinson and Emily Bronte and Jane Austen and sometimes even Ann Frank. I am having a party and any lonesome girl with a pen in her hand is invited!

I should go shower and clear my head with beads of water.

I should really make a friend before I forget how to altogether.

Au Courant

I write and rewrite what could be my fall schedule but I just never know if I could handle it. 1030am to 0600pm. Is that too much? I'm going to submit it tomorrow morning.
I've been generally satisfied and seemingly less creative, or less creative in the usual ways. My bad jokes get a little more elaborate but not much better.

Adam is working on his class paper which happens during the evening while particularly nothing good or worth my time is on the tele.

I'm warming up some tea and orange juice and preparing to watch The Burbs.

Boring, I know. But I enjoy these moments.

PS. I'm going to the Berkeley Art Museum tomorrow. Cross your fingers for pictures.

Take One, Pass It On.

This was taken in front of a Safeway earlier today.

I think one of the most useful things that I’ve learned in the past year is that it is quite acceptable and sometimes even healthy to have regrets.

So long, of course, as it’s done in moderation

Okay.

Will it always be like this? Wondering how people make friends with one another, just like that? It feels too much like being 13 years old and trying to figure out how sex works, knowing that it happens all the time, that it’s perfectly normal, and despite spending so much time imagining it, you can’t actually ever imagine it will happen, you can’t imagine how it would happen.

Usually I don’t pay much attention to personality tests, but the other day I took one and the results said that I was equal parts schizoid (someone who doesn’t hang around others and doesn’t want to) and avoidant (someone who doesn’t hang around others but does really want to) and I couldn’t help thinking that the two of those together is contradictory, nonsensical, and completely true.