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Jan. 4th, 2006 12:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombrageRIARGHT. I update too much.
I justify it as follows:
I don't use this like a livejournal.
Nobody cares what I got on my chem final, that Mr. Bailey is subbing for Janoff this week, or that I talked to Paul on the phone after getting Melody's voicemail, so I don't say it.
In a decade, will all that matter? It didn't even matter today.
I don't like to say what I did unless I really want to remember it or have something pseudo philosophical to say about it or a bunch of inside jokes I made up with myself that nobody will "get".
I don't like to talk about people I know and my opinion of them, but sometimes I gush because I always feel like I haven't done enough to appreciate my friends.
And even though I hate myself too, I'm conscientious enough to avoid pouring tidings of my self-directed loathing into the polluted sea of the internet EVERY freaking day.
I just like to write. Okay?
Even if I have nothing truly important to say.
(It's not what you say but how you say it.)
I sound like Stefan apologizing to my brother after Brian skipped Robotics Club. But he's autistic. That's not good.
Now I can say what I want.
That's the trick. You never can say exactly what you want. You're afraid of offending people. You're afraid to show yourself. You want to disappear but you're afraid of death. You're afraid of reality. You want to mean what you say, and you don't even know who you are, much less what you mean.
Music can do that, say so much that you long to say but can't. Other art forms can do that. Offer temporary freedom, lay bare the soul, but still stick to defined forms. But art is too emotional. Often the greatest artists are the ones least affected by their talent, by their work. It's so romanticised to lock oneself up in a room surrounded by pretty things and try to create more of them. (And it's not like a factory. They have to be new, unique, unpatented. Takes more blood to feed it, which is amazing considering the number of fingers and rats caught in the cogs of factory machines.) Life is always a struggle.
Love, see, love is a crazy idea. You're screwed from the start. Bound to your parents and none of you know how to deal. There are a multitude of varieties of love too. Alas, a cornucopia of love. Enough with the clichés.
Virginia Woolf was talking about the love between a man and a woman that wasn't the kind of love between a man and a woman. (Legal equality, social equality... biological equality is the last thing to go, eh, but that's not what she means. She means it's less involved with carnal desire, etc.)
They were ashamed; they didn't want to admit to each other or even themselves that they were in love. Why did they need to do that? Why is there so much fear in love? So much pain? Why do people cry tears of joy AND sorrow? Why do they scream in anguish or in delight? Why do cats purr when frightened? Why do humans have sex for fun if it hurts? Why are people most critical and unkind to the ones they love most? They both thought that the other one was the greatest thing since bipedalism. The problem would arise if the feeling was not mutual. But they saw it in each others' eyes. It built up and kind of exploded once they were alone together (paradox). Why did they have to be alone? It reminds me of those people that lock their unwanted children in cages or small closets. The things everyone wonders.
And naturally they can't be married and happy, despite Virginia's ever-so-great respect for the grand old institution of marriage. Of course Rachel goes insane and dies. Maybe there's something we're missing out on? The dead people that cry in the night?
Anyway, it's another true war story. Truer, in fact, than Virginia knew at the time. And to go against that, she created morals that are less morals than truths about life. She's just so honest. She deals with reality. She writes about average people. She writes as a woman. She tries so hard to be unpretentious despite her so-called secret snobberies. Clinging to the bottom of the upper class, large families, mental breakdowns, a love of poetry, the position of women. That's all Virginia speaking. And her use of language is exquisite. British English is more elegant and she describes things freshly. She reminds me so much of Sophia. I can never talk to Sophia though. You know, speaking of Things I Can't Do.
(Kid A calls herself an introvert but is so eager to show off her sketchbook and be praised for her artistic talents. I think she's a bit of a hypocrite (so am I, fear not) but wish I could do the same. I'm repressing art at the moment. I'm probably jealous. I call myself an introvert but talk about nothing to so many people. They only have to be familiar. Sometimes I just want to make them laugh... It's so nice when people laugh at things you weren't expecting them to laugh at. I have to connect everything.)
To go along with the whole tangent, I was intensely glad that I read The Voyage Out, but it was so painful at the same time. I'm crying and the world is back to normal.
But the things you realize. You mean "bitch" isn't the proper form of filial address? You mean your parents give you hugs (not drugs HAHAHA)? You mean your grandparents tell pleasant stories? You mean you didn't spend your childhood locked in violent brawls with your siblings? You mean you never threw the communion wafer out the car window? Why does everyone get on so well? Why does my cat fail at the easiest job ever?
She pees on everything. When you pet her she bites you. She won't stay on your lap. She runs from you when you come near and starts screaming catfights with the stray. Her voice is low and ominous except when she wants food. She suits us.
The stray lets me pet her now. It was incredible. She's so much nicer than our real cat, but she has to stay outdoors and Baby is always "the best one in the house." Her fur is not as soft as Baby's and her tail looks somewhat damaged, but living outdoors does that. We always find her stalking lizards, squirming tail gyrating severed in the corner of her mouth, but that's nature. She's starting to get fat thanks to the noble efforts of my mom. Make everyone obese. But you pet her... and she rolls over. Her stomach fur is so white. You get up and she makes the most pathetic plaintive little squeak noise. Why do we love pathetic things? Babies with big eyes? When you walk away she darts in front of you and waits for you. She wants to walk with you. She wants to play with you. She licks your hand (simultaneously conjuring up thoughts of lizard tails moving independent of the brain that once drove them, where has that tongue been, shut up, 'tard, that's what regular happy cats do, this is not your world; it belongs to everyone and is ruled by irrational rational laws), nips at your sleeve (not your HAND), attacks a stick on the ground. Not you, the stick. (Why do cats like me and hate my brother? Is my brother AFRAID of cats?) What the hell, was Baby brutally abused in the past? What did her previous owners do to her to fuck her up so much? Will people say the same thing about me? I hope I'm not like my parents.
I knew eventually I'd have to leave the stray. I was supposed to be reading. For a diversion, I climbed a tree. I guess I wanted to impress her. I maybe wanted to see if she'd come up too. This cat can jump so high and climb things and do all the cool stuff every cat can that Baby is too indolent to do. But her eyes dilated and she was afraid. She ran behind the shed and I followed her. I found a snakeskin. Today she was okay with me, though. I wonder what this cat is thinking about.
Cats are so much easier to deal with than people. The stray is so small. And she's so complex, but much less complex than humans. Their love is so simple, if you can even call it love? Is it even trust?
It's ridiculous that the iDog only has what, five sensors? The interface is so simple. It seems easy to get bored. What a shitty toy. Why are people buying it? Cease and desist. Capitalism sucks, man. How does that thing have a market in Japan? Meanwhile our fellow humans will fascinate us for a lifetime. We want to know why they do what they do, if they approve of us, why WE do what we do. People never run out of random phrases. It pisses me off when I fall into habits like that. "Sketchball."- Awika. And that my movement vocabulary is so severely limited when I am kneeling. That would not have looked like a pelvic thrust if I could have lifted my knee. I could have, but I'd end up accidentally smacking people. Like I did later.
So then I climbed onto the roof. In my pajamas at 6 PM. I never bothered to change. I had just been in the truck with Jim on the way to and from Brian's violin lesson. I told him things about what I've been doing lately, my friends, that my parents wouldn't listen to. (Why was I so surprised that Calliope and Melody's parents had heard so much about me?) My hair was a mess, too. And there I am, on the roof of my house, in plain sight of the 800 cars that shoot recklessly down my street and the Cubans in the house facing mine, who are always outside. I'd never been on the roof of the house before, only the shed. I took a route I saw the cat take. The shingles crackled as I stepped on them.
My house really is pretty small, but it's a patchwork of additions. Some legal, some not. Still, it's small. Our shed is large and dirty and not useful enough. Large for a shed. It felt so weird to stand on the roof of my room. It's incredible that my life fits under that little roof, that the roof supported my weight, etc. Gotta love engineering. There's so much inside my house, but so little. We're inefficient.
We have so much dirty lawn furniture we barely use and never clean. That alone is not contaminated with the slow stain of our lives. Residual memories. Dust of human skin.
I can climb trees quickly and gracefully now. Why the hell is leaving the ground so appealing lately? I lead a charmed life. As much as I complain, it's not right that I do. Other people have it far worse than I... do... have... it... bad. Poor the third world. (Everything but America, Europe, and about three select parts of Asia haha).
But since I spent all of yesterday reading and procrastinating from reading, I wrote my journals at school and skipped dance to sleep because I honestly was exhausted. I don't feel like going back to dance. The people are so mean. I wish I could make Calliope feel better about the circus people because I kind of empathize.
Mark and Ginny were like Parents 2.0... Gay 2.0
So Ginny deleted her last couple blogs. I knew that would happen. I honestly did.
"I won't go back to that school. Ever. Not only do I not want to visit - I'm not wanted – and I understand that." Ohfuck. That's... NO.
I know, I'm just this stupid little girl sitting on the floor typing wearing a blanket as a cape because I can't stand the weak Florida chill. I rerun the same circuit daily. But my heart is sinking. The tracks have changed. Jesus Christ, being sixteen is not sweet at all.
I wonder what Pine View was like anteLargo.
Anyway, if this shit never happened I'd never have her thoughts to read. It's all good, unless you're a bunny.
My great-grandmother's motto was "Life's once."
Reading them, I understand why stamp collectors want to lick the backs of all those pieces of history and stick them into a bound album they can look back at. Everything organized and accessible. Makes it seem like it saving them was worth something. Like the stamps themselves are still worth something. Old printed paper with glue on the back, feh.
I think about so much when I read. It takes a sick amount of time now. I never notice how late it is. I almost wish I could shut off the voice inside my head. But I'm not telling Mrs. Janoff about it. I don't even write it all down here. I don't like her because she knows I don't like myself. I don't want her to see how I think. I used to hate journal entries, but not as much as I hated peer editing. I'd rather my teacher know what's on my mind than random kids. I know I don't think like them. Sex, drugs, rap. I know everyone thinks of odd things too, but it seems that's ALL I think of. I love when people understand. I love when we're thinking of exactly the same thing without saying a word, or when we do speak and say the same thing at once. It usually just means they share interests, which is such a superficial thing (I lean too hard on popular culture, but it's so much easier to view popular intellectual property and I'm prone to laziness.), or that we've spent a lot of time together and have memories/jokes. It's a lot of fun to recall familiar times. You know, I love the things everyone loves, provided they're not sex, drugs, rap, or other things I don't love.
They trick you to fall in line. You feel special when the social system is working with you. The wayward child is prodded into acquiescence. (Not that I was ever particularly disobedient to anyone besides my parents, actually, not my parents either.) It's scarier to be shocking or even stand out than to blend in with the crowd. Submit to Die Geldgesellschaft.
Also I've decided that if people are going to find this pile of crap and actually go through it and read it all and think about it, I don't care. My attempt at honesty. Vague thoughts are open-source. And if I ever make other people think, so much the better. I guess I'd feel productive. I am wasting homework time. Why do I want to improve things for other people and feel okay with my own rot? Ehh. I need to grow up. Eventually.
I could write far better if I didn't care either. Everything would work better if we weren't all such closet fags.
Eventually I'll find a comfortable place, a way out. I put up a hell of a front. It's kind of disintegrating.
Writers make up characters. How dumb. But when your chracters don't have katanas or HP, it's easier to accept. I find myself doing it. Walking down the hall, I had a conversation with an imaginary person in my mind. I never "did" imaginary friends. When I used to make up characters, I named them elaborately (I liked floral names, long names, old-fashioned names, exotic names), made them beautiful, talented, witty... all I hoped to be, at the time. Life was simpler then. They found beautiful fairies that warned them that they would die if they stole beautiful enchanted things, and cute kittens that taught them how to fly and disappeared, robbing them of their talents. Bubbles of dish soap fascinated me. Everything was so special.
Now I talk to old women. Not deformed old women with knives that slash off the heads of deformed old men with long fingernails, but old women. I talk to hoboes. I make up dialogues with policemen, with people who find me in their backyards, so the words won't come out wrong. Things are like other things. Everything is like a song. Then there is dance. God I loved Mary Anne Lamb.
And y'know, today was relatively boring. Relatively. There was a teapot in the closet of shame. And a naughty faun. I dislike telling the same stories more than once the same way. It makes me feel like Mr. McCracken.
Mark Twain coined the term "the Gilded Age." It looks good on the outside but it's all fake on the inside.
...blah blah blah astonishingly nothing about his daughter...
Does anyone know who called the post Civil War era of corruption in politics "the Gilded Age?"
Ooh, challenging.
I justify it as follows:
I don't use this like a livejournal.
Nobody cares what I got on my chem final, that Mr. Bailey is subbing for Janoff this week, or that I talked to Paul on the phone after getting Melody's voicemail, so I don't say it.
In a decade, will all that matter? It didn't even matter today.
I don't like to say what I did unless I really want to remember it or have something pseudo philosophical to say about it or a bunch of inside jokes I made up with myself that nobody will "get".
I don't like to talk about people I know and my opinion of them, but sometimes I gush because I always feel like I haven't done enough to appreciate my friends.
And even though I hate myself too, I'm conscientious enough to avoid pouring tidings of my self-directed loathing into the polluted sea of the internet EVERY freaking day.
I just like to write. Okay?
Even if I have nothing truly important to say.
(It's not what you say but how you say it.)
I sound like Stefan apologizing to my brother after Brian skipped Robotics Club. But he's autistic. That's not good.
Now I can say what I want.
That's the trick. You never can say exactly what you want. You're afraid of offending people. You're afraid to show yourself. You want to disappear but you're afraid of death. You're afraid of reality. You want to mean what you say, and you don't even know who you are, much less what you mean.
Music can do that, say so much that you long to say but can't. Other art forms can do that. Offer temporary freedom, lay bare the soul, but still stick to defined forms. But art is too emotional. Often the greatest artists are the ones least affected by their talent, by their work. It's so romanticised to lock oneself up in a room surrounded by pretty things and try to create more of them. (And it's not like a factory. They have to be new, unique, unpatented. Takes more blood to feed it, which is amazing considering the number of fingers and rats caught in the cogs of factory machines.) Life is always a struggle.
Love, see, love is a crazy idea. You're screwed from the start. Bound to your parents and none of you know how to deal. There are a multitude of varieties of love too. Alas, a cornucopia of love. Enough with the clichés.
Virginia Woolf was talking about the love between a man and a woman that wasn't the kind of love between a man and a woman. (Legal equality, social equality... biological equality is the last thing to go, eh, but that's not what she means. She means it's less involved with carnal desire, etc.)
They were ashamed; they didn't want to admit to each other or even themselves that they were in love. Why did they need to do that? Why is there so much fear in love? So much pain? Why do people cry tears of joy AND sorrow? Why do they scream in anguish or in delight? Why do cats purr when frightened? Why do humans have sex for fun if it hurts? Why are people most critical and unkind to the ones they love most? They both thought that the other one was the greatest thing since bipedalism. The problem would arise if the feeling was not mutual. But they saw it in each others' eyes. It built up and kind of exploded once they were alone together (paradox). Why did they have to be alone? It reminds me of those people that lock their unwanted children in cages or small closets. The things everyone wonders.
And naturally they can't be married and happy, despite Virginia's ever-so-great respect for the grand old institution of marriage. Of course Rachel goes insane and dies. Maybe there's something we're missing out on? The dead people that cry in the night?
Anyway, it's another true war story. Truer, in fact, than Virginia knew at the time. And to go against that, she created morals that are less morals than truths about life. She's just so honest. She deals with reality. She writes about average people. She writes as a woman. She tries so hard to be unpretentious despite her so-called secret snobberies. Clinging to the bottom of the upper class, large families, mental breakdowns, a love of poetry, the position of women. That's all Virginia speaking. And her use of language is exquisite. British English is more elegant and she describes things freshly. She reminds me so much of Sophia. I can never talk to Sophia though. You know, speaking of Things I Can't Do.
(Kid A calls herself an introvert but is so eager to show off her sketchbook and be praised for her artistic talents. I think she's a bit of a hypocrite (so am I, fear not) but wish I could do the same. I'm repressing art at the moment. I'm probably jealous. I call myself an introvert but talk about nothing to so many people. They only have to be familiar. Sometimes I just want to make them laugh... It's so nice when people laugh at things you weren't expecting them to laugh at. I have to connect everything.)
To go along with the whole tangent, I was intensely glad that I read The Voyage Out, but it was so painful at the same time. I'm crying and the world is back to normal.
But the things you realize. You mean "bitch" isn't the proper form of filial address? You mean your parents give you hugs (not drugs HAHAHA)? You mean your grandparents tell pleasant stories? You mean you didn't spend your childhood locked in violent brawls with your siblings? You mean you never threw the communion wafer out the car window? Why does everyone get on so well? Why does my cat fail at the easiest job ever?
She pees on everything. When you pet her she bites you. She won't stay on your lap. She runs from you when you come near and starts screaming catfights with the stray. Her voice is low and ominous except when she wants food. She suits us.
The stray lets me pet her now. It was incredible. She's so much nicer than our real cat, but she has to stay outdoors and Baby is always "the best one in the house." Her fur is not as soft as Baby's and her tail looks somewhat damaged, but living outdoors does that. We always find her stalking lizards, squirming tail gyrating severed in the corner of her mouth, but that's nature. She's starting to get fat thanks to the noble efforts of my mom. Make everyone obese. But you pet her... and she rolls over. Her stomach fur is so white. You get up and she makes the most pathetic plaintive little squeak noise. Why do we love pathetic things? Babies with big eyes? When you walk away she darts in front of you and waits for you. She wants to walk with you. She wants to play with you. She licks your hand (simultaneously conjuring up thoughts of lizard tails moving independent of the brain that once drove them, where has that tongue been, shut up, 'tard, that's what regular happy cats do, this is not your world; it belongs to everyone and is ruled by irrational rational laws), nips at your sleeve (not your HAND), attacks a stick on the ground. Not you, the stick. (Why do cats like me and hate my brother? Is my brother AFRAID of cats?) What the hell, was Baby brutally abused in the past? What did her previous owners do to her to fuck her up so much? Will people say the same thing about me? I hope I'm not like my parents.
I knew eventually I'd have to leave the stray. I was supposed to be reading. For a diversion, I climbed a tree. I guess I wanted to impress her. I maybe wanted to see if she'd come up too. This cat can jump so high and climb things and do all the cool stuff every cat can that Baby is too indolent to do. But her eyes dilated and she was afraid. She ran behind the shed and I followed her. I found a snakeskin. Today she was okay with me, though. I wonder what this cat is thinking about.
Cats are so much easier to deal with than people. The stray is so small. And she's so complex, but much less complex than humans. Their love is so simple, if you can even call it love? Is it even trust?
It's ridiculous that the iDog only has what, five sensors? The interface is so simple. It seems easy to get bored. What a shitty toy. Why are people buying it? Cease and desist. Capitalism sucks, man. How does that thing have a market in Japan? Meanwhile our fellow humans will fascinate us for a lifetime. We want to know why they do what they do, if they approve of us, why WE do what we do. People never run out of random phrases. It pisses me off when I fall into habits like that. "Sketchball."- Awika. And that my movement vocabulary is so severely limited when I am kneeling. That would not have looked like a pelvic thrust if I could have lifted my knee. I could have, but I'd end up accidentally smacking people. Like I did later.
So then I climbed onto the roof. In my pajamas at 6 PM. I never bothered to change. I had just been in the truck with Jim on the way to and from Brian's violin lesson. I told him things about what I've been doing lately, my friends, that my parents wouldn't listen to. (Why was I so surprised that Calliope and Melody's parents had heard so much about me?) My hair was a mess, too. And there I am, on the roof of my house, in plain sight of the 800 cars that shoot recklessly down my street and the Cubans in the house facing mine, who are always outside. I'd never been on the roof of the house before, only the shed. I took a route I saw the cat take. The shingles crackled as I stepped on them.
My house really is pretty small, but it's a patchwork of additions. Some legal, some not. Still, it's small. Our shed is large and dirty and not useful enough. Large for a shed. It felt so weird to stand on the roof of my room. It's incredible that my life fits under that little roof, that the roof supported my weight, etc. Gotta love engineering. There's so much inside my house, but so little. We're inefficient.
We have so much dirty lawn furniture we barely use and never clean. That alone is not contaminated with the slow stain of our lives. Residual memories. Dust of human skin.
I can climb trees quickly and gracefully now. Why the hell is leaving the ground so appealing lately? I lead a charmed life. As much as I complain, it's not right that I do. Other people have it far worse than I... do... have... it... bad. Poor the third world. (Everything but America, Europe, and about three select parts of Asia haha).
But since I spent all of yesterday reading and procrastinating from reading, I wrote my journals at school and skipped dance to sleep because I honestly was exhausted. I don't feel like going back to dance. The people are so mean. I wish I could make Calliope feel better about the circus people because I kind of empathize.
Mark and Ginny were like Parents 2.0... Gay 2.0
So Ginny deleted her last couple blogs. I knew that would happen. I honestly did.
"I won't go back to that school. Ever. Not only do I not want to visit - I'm not wanted – and I understand that." Ohfuck. That's... NO.
I know, I'm just this stupid little girl sitting on the floor typing wearing a blanket as a cape because I can't stand the weak Florida chill. I rerun the same circuit daily. But my heart is sinking. The tracks have changed. Jesus Christ, being sixteen is not sweet at all.
I wonder what Pine View was like anteLargo.
Anyway, if this shit never happened I'd never have her thoughts to read. It's all good, unless you're a bunny.
My great-grandmother's motto was "Life's once."
Reading them, I understand why stamp collectors want to lick the backs of all those pieces of history and stick them into a bound album they can look back at. Everything organized and accessible. Makes it seem like it saving them was worth something. Like the stamps themselves are still worth something. Old printed paper with glue on the back, feh.
I think about so much when I read. It takes a sick amount of time now. I never notice how late it is. I almost wish I could shut off the voice inside my head. But I'm not telling Mrs. Janoff about it. I don't even write it all down here. I don't like her because she knows I don't like myself. I don't want her to see how I think. I used to hate journal entries, but not as much as I hated peer editing. I'd rather my teacher know what's on my mind than random kids. I know I don't think like them. Sex, drugs, rap. I know everyone thinks of odd things too, but it seems that's ALL I think of. I love when people understand. I love when we're thinking of exactly the same thing without saying a word, or when we do speak and say the same thing at once. It usually just means they share interests, which is such a superficial thing (I lean too hard on popular culture, but it's so much easier to view popular intellectual property and I'm prone to laziness.), or that we've spent a lot of time together and have memories/jokes. It's a lot of fun to recall familiar times. You know, I love the things everyone loves, provided they're not sex, drugs, rap, or other things I don't love.
They trick you to fall in line. You feel special when the social system is working with you. The wayward child is prodded into acquiescence. (Not that I was ever particularly disobedient to anyone besides my parents, actually, not my parents either.) It's scarier to be shocking or even stand out than to blend in with the crowd. Submit to Die Geldgesellschaft.
Also I've decided that if people are going to find this pile of crap and actually go through it and read it all and think about it, I don't care. My attempt at honesty. Vague thoughts are open-source. And if I ever make other people think, so much the better. I guess I'd feel productive. I am wasting homework time. Why do I want to improve things for other people and feel okay with my own rot? Ehh. I need to grow up. Eventually.
I could write far better if I didn't care either. Everything would work better if we weren't all such closet fags.
Eventually I'll find a comfortable place, a way out. I put up a hell of a front. It's kind of disintegrating.
Writers make up characters. How dumb. But when your chracters don't have katanas or HP, it's easier to accept. I find myself doing it. Walking down the hall, I had a conversation with an imaginary person in my mind. I never "did" imaginary friends. When I used to make up characters, I named them elaborately (I liked floral names, long names, old-fashioned names, exotic names), made them beautiful, talented, witty... all I hoped to be, at the time. Life was simpler then. They found beautiful fairies that warned them that they would die if they stole beautiful enchanted things, and cute kittens that taught them how to fly and disappeared, robbing them of their talents. Bubbles of dish soap fascinated me. Everything was so special.
Now I talk to old women. Not deformed old women with knives that slash off the heads of deformed old men with long fingernails, but old women. I talk to hoboes. I make up dialogues with policemen, with people who find me in their backyards, so the words won't come out wrong. Things are like other things. Everything is like a song. Then there is dance. God I loved Mary Anne Lamb.
And y'know, today was relatively boring. Relatively. There was a teapot in the closet of shame. And a naughty faun. I dislike telling the same stories more than once the same way. It makes me feel like Mr. McCracken.
Mark Twain coined the term "the Gilded Age." It looks good on the outside but it's all fake on the inside.
...blah blah blah astonishingly nothing about his daughter...
Does anyone know who called the post Civil War era of corruption in politics "the Gilded Age?"
Ooh, challenging.
