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[20 Apr 2009|09:51am] |
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I am actually just grinding my teeth. I am not writing. Every time I take a break from this stress and exhaustion and the way that my eyes fix themselves upon a spot on the floor for seven uninterrupted minutes, I smoke a cigarette on the floor of my bathroom, ash in the shower and then turn the water to rush the gray soot down the drain. The whole time, I stare at the wall and grind my teeth and think about absolutely nothing. At this very moment, I have two hours to create nine pages from nineteen pages of thorough notes and quotes that I picked apart from a two hundred page book. This would be better if I had slept, but I have not slept. I am exhausted and ruining my teeth. This has been my night and my morning.
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(1 | count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[10 Mar 2009|07:28pm] |
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Gawd, reading old things I wrote when I thought that the Beats were the only ones worth reading. I was very in love then. Reading about how in love I was made me sad, but more than that, thinking about how much I've changed since then makes me feel very, very mature.
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(5 | count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[04 Feb 2009|07:29pm] |
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I unconsciously read a poem backwards today, stanza by stanza. The end result was nice. I did yoga and exhaled loudly like you're supposed to. I've been holding onto good moods. I'm settling things that are unsettled and listening to Atmosphere, and my chest doesn't clench up a few times a day when I'm uncomfortable, because I haven't been uncomfortable. How fucking lovely is all that?
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[02 Feb 2009|02:35am] |
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I have realized recently that I have no interest in initiating a relationship, no interest in falling in love, really, and would much rather make my way through the next couple of months exploring boys and exploring the city and not holding onto a single person or place or thing, and not deciding that I'm in more in love with any one person or place or thing over any part of the rest of New York City.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[18 Jan 2009|03:13am] |
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Back at school. It is beautiful. I want to write, "back at home." Spending too much money on too many drinks and laughing with people I haven't laughed with for too long. Half drunk, completely happy. New York City, freezing. Friends from home, dirty apartment. Drunk, drunk, drunk.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[01 Jan 2009|05:00pm] |
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Hiding in my room, self loathing, ill, with half the night tucked into some untouchable corner of my mind. I hate drinking. I hate myself. If how you spend New Years Eve is how you're supposed to spend the rest of the year, then, apparently, I am going to spend 2009 on the verge of alcohol poisoning.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[30 Dec 2008|02:12am] |
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This has been my life lately:
Writing excessively, and, exclusively, poorly.
Becoming struck by bizarre impulses, like to do yoga at two in the morning. I'm half graceful and half a mess at it.
Eating apples eight times a day and monitoring my weight on our bathroom scale; this is not a habit entirely connected to body hatred.
It has more to do with inducing a sense of accomplishment and making things feel as though they're moving along here.
Because it's all incredibly stagnant.
And so I watch the little 121 appear over and over again, and partially I'm disappointed,
because I always want to weight slightly less (acknowledging, still, that I am in in no way fat, and that muscle weighs more than fat, and I've plenty of that, blah blah blah) but partially I'm motivated as all fuck to just move, and I think that without that motivation,
all I would want to do is the following:
Read, write, watch movies, get stoned, drink (only) very late at night and (only) sitting on couches in small apartments (and this rarely, because my drunkenness here has been to alter the boredom, not for enjoyment, not for exploration, only for escapism, and that scares me a bit), and sleep late into the day because I've been staying up all night.
I feel hugely disconnected and weary and have kept my phone off and far away half intentionally.
I discover silent universes on the internet of art and literature.
And I listen to The National all the fucking time.
And I go out to dinner with my mother half the nights each week and listen to her talk about love while she's addled off two glasses of wine.
And I buy soft things from Victoria's Secret and sleep in them.
I lounge, create, cry (occasionally) and am generally just unhappy.
And when I'm not unhappy, I'm reveling in solitude. Sometimes I enjoy the reveling, and other times I do not.
This post isn't interesting. It's most of what everything is right now.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[16 Dec 2008|12:37pm] |
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My fear about the tattoo thing is that I'll end up wanting to write everything beautiful onto my body.
Because I'm thinking now that I want
(dreaming
et,
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
on my back.
But I am already getting other things.
On my back.
It will be so stupid looking and crowded.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[16 Dec 2008|11:25am] |
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Weird:
Noey did a google search for drop seat onesies, because, well, that is obviously what we do with our time, and the first result that came up was this livejournal. And that's weird. I don't want drop seat onesie fans of the world to read all my silly ramblings here.
So...
I'm considering getting rid of this. It's not just the onesie thing. But I spend so much fucking time writing here and obsessing over the tiny details of my life, and part of me is sort of sick of myself for it. I don't write poetically here, or in any manner that improves me as a writer at all, really. Rarely, at least.
Here are the issues:
I want to keep reading all of your things. Everyone on my friends list is fantastic, and I love you all, at least a little bit, probably more than that, for the place you have in my life and the things I've learned from you. It's a weird relationship, and I'd miss it.
I also want to be able to look back at this occasionally. I've had it, off and on, since eighth fucking grade.
What I'm thinking about is:
starting another one as a profile for occasional, good writing that I do, because next semester, I'm writing a lot more.
And I'd friend all you lovely people again.
But is there a way that I can privatize this entire journal so that only I can look at it?
I don't really want it on the whole entire internet.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[07 Dec 2008|10:50pm] |
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New Years Resolution starting today right now:
Be less self-involved.
Selfish.
Analytical.
What a strangely silly thing to write in a livejournal.
I'll be writing a lot less here.
Obviously.
Maybe I'll write things that are good and, you know, not about me.
I am going to:
Work more, read more, take care of myself better, spend less time on facebook, spend less time thinking about boys (done) and just be myself and immerse myself in art and literature and all other beautiful things and write about them and not write about myself.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[04 Dec 2008|02:32am] |
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I am incapable
right now
of doing ANYTHING productive.
Instead of writing my eight page paper on Buddhism
(I have crafted five pages of sometimes and at best dull poetry around the topic, and it's awful, reading over what I've written, how I've barely pushed through any of this factual layering and said anything truly spectacular or interesting. Some of it is good, pretty, interested, but the rest is just listing, and I'm not satisfied with it, but I'm too much of a complete waste to be able to look over what I've written for the eight thousandth time)
I have:
Listened to every Fleet Foxes song eighty-seven times.
Admired my new ABS (I have never had abs in my LIFE; how dearly I love the gym) in the mirror in the C3 bathroom with Noey, which was best when someone came in to see the two of us with our shirts rolled up to our bras, poking our stomachs.
Used morphthing.com to see what revoltingly unattractive looking children Kara and I would have.
Researched drop seat onesies on the internet, because they are all I want for Christmas, and pajamagram.com will personalize my onesies for $9.95 extra, so I'm ecstatic.
Eaten two bowls of Special K.
Looked through old pictures of Zachary and me in Europe. We look adorable and terribly in love and that only makes me happy and nothing else.
Let a particular hatred absolutely fester in my mind while I stared off into space.
Written this, here; this is about nothing.
This the most beautiful thing in my life right now:
In the town one morning I went
Staggering through premonitions of my death
I don't see anybody that dear to me
Eighty-seven times. Never less perfect.
In my head, the first line went, "With the tar of our wasted breath,"
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[02 Dec 2008|12:01am] |
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1. I should stop whining or feeling underwhelmed at all.
2. Today I spoke too quietly to a man who responded like he was completely used to hearing quiet voices.
3. There are Christmas trees on the sidewalk.
4. The city feels softer when you wear comfortable shoes.
5. Pictures of Timothy Leary outside of Loew's; Loew's in real life.
6. Warm hats.
7. Cold weather.
8. I listen to Fleet Foxes and The Great Lake Swimmers over and over again sitting on the floor in the basement of my dorm.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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| unpoetic recap |
[01 Dec 2008|12:06am] |
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Coming home took forever and was sad, and I sat on the bus for too long pretending to want to talk to the man sitting next to me, shaking from red bull and leaning forward in my seat for the last fucking hour and a half. Met Kara and her boyfriend at South Station and bonded over our pregnancy scares, which is a strange thing to bond over. Sat in Kara's dorm room and tapped my toes, talked to Sarah on the phone, became hungrier and hungrier. Was reminded of how absolutely, undeniably beautiful my friends are. Ate and was full. Suddenly was in Sharon, and suddenly was strangely out of place. Texted Zachary and asked him if you're supposed to feel out of place. He talked about the strange, old, social paranoia that resurfaces from high school, and I said, "no, it's not like that. I don't feel that. I just really don't want to be here." Talked to my grandmother late at night; she's the only one awake when I'm home, and she asks me about my writing, and I have nothing to say. "I write about the same things over and over again," I say in my head, "about boys and touching. I write a lot about touching boys." This is awkward, unnecessary, uncomfortable, and so I am silent. Stay up forever and think about how this isn't home and write about how this isn't home. Sleep late the next day and eat Thanksgiving dinner in my pajamas. My older sister is beautiful and my older brother is brilliant, lonely. I am quiet and tiny. This is how I usually feel. I am comfortable, warm, and I fall asleep after too much apple pie while my family is watching The Hulk in the family room, and it's screaming and blaring while I'm sleeping the whole way through. Friday I am awake early after never really going to bed, exactly, and I do yoga. I wish it would move more quickly. I eat breakfast with Zachary, which is strange, but perfect. I make fun of him for being a hipster, and we talk about art and the internet as he pours syrup into empty cream containers on the table. I shower when I'm back and meet with my therapist. There is little shame in this statement since I discovered that everyone in Manhattan has a therapist. I discuss everything in the universe and feel better about life. In the afternoon, then, I talk to my brother about living in New York for the summer, and he tells me about Brooklyn, and I'm suddenly in love with neighborhoods I've never seen, and I am officially never coming home again. We eat dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant; it is a staple in our family, and it is where my grandmother always gets drunk. She is merely tipsy at the end of the meal, which is disappointing for everyone. Later I'm at an apartment in Boston, which is not like New York. Beirut all night and small amounts of cocaine in the bathroom. This is when I look back at my day and feel silly. Yoga, brunch, therapy, dinner, this particular party? This isn't real life, and it isn't what I remember my life to be. Saturday I buy shoes with my mother and discuss plans for Brooklyn. And then at night I watch movies with my friends, who are beautiful, and I drive home on no gas at three in the morning. Fear I forgot: running out of gas. I hate cars; I miss New York. Half afraid, I listen to music too fucking loudly, my favorite folk inspired indie rock music that is apparently silly, conventional, too full of strings and dumb drum beats. I'm singing stupidly at the top of my tiny, strained lungs, "It's clear to see you're nothing special, you're a skeleton key." There's something spectacular about that, and I don't run out of gas, so I suppose that's all good. Sunday, we adopt a kitten, and she is named Princess Buttercup, and she is perfect. We cuddle and do nothing all day, and I think about essays I should write, but I do nothing. At night I am here, ready to return to New York. Sleep is impossible. It will not happen. I miss the city. I miss it. So much. Ready to go back and do things again and not feel restricted in any aspect of my life...ready to tackle things. Coming home has made me realize exactly what stale really is, and I'm now thinking that the biggest problem I will have in upcoming months is finding time to sleep.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[27 Nov 2008|03:05am] |
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Three AM and so it is officially Thanksgiving, and here is what I am thankful for:
My youth, primarily. The sudden insight that I have a huge amount of heartbreak ahead of me and that, at some point, I'll be so fucking good at having my heart broken that it will cease to kill me. Other associations: my energy, the years ahead of me, the amount that I will change, the people I will meet, the places I will go, the things that I will see, etc. This sounds silly.
But it's a lovely thought.
Home would be better if I could sink into it again, but I rest on top of everything here and tip-toe around like I don't know what I'm doing. It would feel better to be stoned late at night like I always used to be, wandering through the kitchen happy and hazy to return back to my room with the whole thing silent and softly smelling, and then I'd leave the window open despite the cold and listen to the wind or music or our old house creaking the entire night through.
That was home, me in my home, and I'm thankful for those memories as well.
And thankful that poetry is written and for Jonathan Safran Foer, the internet, my friends, beds, kittens, snow.
Etc.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[24 Nov 2008|02:20pm] |
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Home is where beds are made, and butter is added to toast
On a cold afternoon you can float room to room like a ghost
So soon.
Hold ourselves together with our arms around the stereo for hours
While it sings to itself or whatever it does
when it sings to itself of its long lost loves
I’m getting tired, I’m forgetting why
Tired and wired we ruin too easy
sleep in our clothes and wait for winter to leave
but I’ll be with you behind the couch when they come
on a different day just like this one
We’ll stay inside til somebody finds us
do whatever the TV tells us
stay inside our rosy-minded fuzz for days
We’ll stay inside til somebody finds us
do whatever the TV tells us
stay inside our rosy-minded fuzz
so worry not
all things are well
we’ll be alright
we have our looks and perfume
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[23 Nov 2008|11:46pm] |
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Such a repulsed, awful, confused feeling right now. I want to erase all the fuckery and have things be okay, not because I still have feelings for him, because, at this point, not only do I not have feelings for him, but I can't imagine letting myself get to the point where I could, but because all the worst things in the world are between us, and that's affecting the way he sees me, rightfully, and I want to be able to look back and think that what we had was beautiful when we had it, and not that it was the deterioration that occurred right after.
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[23 Nov 2008|04:34pm] |
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Lazy day of nothing and being hungover and reading pretty things and looking at pretty pictures on the internet in my slippers and dirtiest sweater.
I feel very different and very disappointed with the way things are; why have I not learned, ever, completely, that I am awful and not myself when I'm intoxicated?
I've ruined things and myself a little bit.
And why I am trying to hold onto things that do not make me happy?
And last night, I was hit on by my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend.
And I don't know what to do with that, aside from laugh at it a little bit.
Only sad quotes have stuck with me lately, though I'm not sad.
I'm just dissatisfied.
Here:
(and they are approximate)
"Either hold on tightly or let go."
"One day, you fall for this boy and he touches you with his fingers and he burns holes in your skin with his mouth and it hurts to look at him and it hurts when you don’t and it feels like someone’s cut you open with a piece of glass."
Theme?
Only I'm loveless today, loveless always. Over over over everything, especially after the conversation we recently had.
Oh, but here's the most glorious one of all of today:
"I was sentimental about many things: a woman’s shoes under the bed; one hairpin left behind on the dresser; the way they said, “I’m going to pee..”’ hair ribbons; walking down the boulevard with them at 1:30 in the afternoon, just two people walking together; the long nights of drinking and smoking; talking; the arguments; thinking of suicide; eating together and feeling good; the jokes; the laughter out of nowhere; feeling miracles in the air; being in a parked car together; comparing past loves at 3am; being told you snore; hearing her snore; mothers, daughters, sons, cats, dogs; sometimes death and sometimes divorce; but always carrying on, always seeing it through; reading a newspaper alone in a sandwich joint and feeling nausea because she’s now married to a dentist with an I.Q. of 95; racetracks, parks, park picnics; even jails; her dull friends; your dull friends; your drinking, her dancing; your flirting, her flirting; her pills, your fucking on the side and her doing the same; sleeping together…"
from Women, by Charles Bukowski
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(count every beautiful thing we can see)
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[23 Nov 2008|10:58am] |
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I wish there was something bigger and better between us so that I don't revert to this imaginary hatred when I'm intoxicated. It's anger that I used to get over him, that I planted inside my mind so that I could have something other than heartbreak fill me one thousand times and over and over again. I feel fine about us every goddamn sober second of my life, but the minute I'm flooded with vodka and tequila and every awful tasting liquid in the world, I fall back into the last emotion I felt. I don't fall back into our friendship, because it isn't there. I don't fall back into our love, because that's too fucking painful. I fall back immediately into the place I was when I found out that he slept with another girl four seconds after we broke up. But it isn't my anger. To be honest, I'm fine, now, with his mentality. I understand the impulse, immediately after being broken up with, to get rid of those new and awful feelings through sex with someone else. And I understand, I think, the relationship he's in now. It was only a matter of time before it happened; they were always, probably, on some level, just waiting for one another to be available, and they suddenly both were. He did not feel loyalty to or nervousness about me, was not weary of breaking my heart, because I was the one who broke up with him.
But it was never because I wanted to.
I'm not even in love with him, but I keep fucking this up, because there's nothing left between us but this grand and all glorious fuckery.
We need to develop beautiful, light things. That's always what I thought we were going to do, but it's harder than just thinking it. Doing it, actually, involves scheduling and putting our hearts and bodies somewhere safe and far away from one another. I'm obviously holding onto this huge negativity and all these unanswered questions, and they come out at the absolute worst times imaginable, and I don't like being bound by feelings that I don't even feel.
Fantastic how that makes so much sense.
I feel this intense need to summarize:
Became angry to get over him. Stopped being angry when we talked. Told people this. They yelled at me, said I should still be angry. I held onto that anger, despite not really agreeing with it. It helped me get over him. Then I felt fine. Felt friendly. The impulsive desire to jump him faded. Hardly. That part's a lie. But the impulsive desire to be alone and next to him died. Loveless one night, and I've been that way since. Add in alcohol, and I'm back to hating him without actually feeling that hatred.
I guess I've said it all about three times now.
I want things to be easier, and it's my fault that they're hard, so that's just fucking fantastic.
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(2 | count every beautiful thing we can see)
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