You Could Be My Evidence.

Ages ago, when I was still in grade school, I remember reading an article in the newspaper about the key to having a lasting relationship. It featured a happy couple in their 80's, real life proof that this sort of relationship could exist, that it wasn't just a figment of our imagination. The piece insisted that statistics showed that the whole opposites attract business was nothing more than a myth, and that the real secret was to find someone who was as similar to you as possible. The elderly couple boasted about having many common interests and their closeness in disposition and age. They even had birthdays only weeks apart.

At the time I could hardly have any qualms with an approach to love that insisted on such an uncomplicated and straight forward formula. Eventually the appeal of it dwindled, but isn't it funny? Somehow that never stopped me from secretly thinking that liking or dating a boy who turned out to have a birthday in early summer must have been an awfully good sign. Every boy who's turned out wrong for me was born in late fall.

These days I'm not so judgemental toward birthdays and stars and zodiacs. I just believe in what I feel

Also, I bought a ticket to San Diego today. Afterward I positioned myself on my back down on the floor and cupped my hand over my heart to see if I could notice any difference.

Addendum

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the idea of having a period of time in your life that you consider to be the happiest or the most productive or the best. I remember being told in middle school and then in highschool and again when I was at City that this was it, this was the time I'd look back fondly on someday, these were the moments I'd want to escape into when the present got too rough. It puts such an awful pressure on you when someone says something like that, it makes you feel like you must be missing something or fucking things up if that isn't how you feel. What's funny is that once you're old enough to realize how ridiculous anyone who tells you that must be, people stop saying it to you altogether.

I've never asked anyone, but I'd sort of like to know if most people are aware that they're experiencing this sort of period while it's actually happening to them. Can they feel it inside them, do their bones whisper, Hey, this is the as good as it gets, and are they grateful for it, or is it the sort of thing that you can only spot in hindsight, something that nostalgia tacks onto a memory?

Either way, I'm trying to be on the look out.

Bad Art Hurts So Good

It is hot here in the brutal humid way that suffocates you slowly in your sleep like a meteorologic boa constrictor. You wake up covered in sweat, panting and thirsty and full of nightmare seeds. There have been no bike rides since I have yet to find the perfect bike. I am left to taking showers to cool myself, to balance my agitated energy with the raging spray of fresh water. And I delight in this, I do, but I miss being able to mereley and passively recline in the tub like some paralyzed dehydrated mermaid. I enjoyed the one or two baths I've had in my life.

Summer is such a crucible for me, the heat and the lushness bring out a longing and restlessness in my soul that makes it hard for me to feel level-headed. Summer makes me feel wild and reckless and inflamed with desires for constant motion and travel and adventure. The most difficult thing for me to do is stay in one place (as I am) and act like a practical adult (which I am). It is a tired metaphor, but I do feel like some kind of firecracker with a long fuse that has been ignited by this new land of excesses and it is only a matter of time before I explode. (will it be beautiful or merely loud?)

There is a site called artpad that has a flash program that lets you paint a picture and records the process of its creation. It is insanely addictive, strangely relaxing, and fun to watch the resulting movie.

View my masterpiece and then make your own.

Get Off The Internet.

The internet is there for a reason: Researching, and for me, researching. I found these at the store and immediately found Tia in my head. The internet allows us to be friends even though distance is trying to fight it.
Re-searching, finding, something?

The trouble with having a "blog" (or the internet in general?) is that it allows you to believe all sorts of people actually do exist, that it is maybe possible to step outside your front door and make friends with people who also daydream about having antique cookie jars and pet frogs and being friends with ghosts, and if you havent met them yet, that is certainly no one's fault but your own. Have you also noticed while perusing people's profiles that there seems to be an endless supply of teenaged girls with a penchant for picknicking in graveyards? It is enough to make one feel rather indignant, enough to make you want to throw up your hands and exclaim in disbelief, "Where were these people when I was in high school!" It is either a great relief or very unpleasant to find out that they have apparently, allegedly, existed all along, and to consequently be forced to remember that so much of one's interactions is dependent on these unwieldy things of timing and luck and convenience.