23/12/2003

I am afraid of my family. Tentative in the speech, in te embraces thqat would be natural, in the things I say, already wrong not two minutes in the meeting. I am afraid of disrupting, of being a brat, I am afraid of ridicule and judgement, of shaming and burdening my mother. I am afraid of falling into the sharp-tongued sullness that is my worst trait.
I am in earnest to promise myself that this will not happend, that I will not add to the grief of my family, to the troubles and tension of my family. Because I love them, I do, more than I can even say. Slothful and cowardly as I am I must remind myself that I love and care for these people, that I am proud of them, admire them. That they form the richness of my life's tapestry.
It's time to be helpful, to love, to forget all bitterness and zeal. Because I can never see throught the 'falsehood' of these holidays. Because I am not Chrsitian but I do celebrate this time, in the name of the thirty so people who will dine with me tomorrow. Because it is more than presents, it is the smell of moss and pasture and pineneedle and the memory of those hazy instants when glow and drink and laughter become too beautiful to bear.
There are new children now, my niece and nephews. I am no longer a child, to ignore my calling. Selfishness is to be silenced because this is what I want. I want those children happy, I want to give presents because I love to give presents and once again the desire to create, to make, to give away and make happiness is strong in me.
What can I do with this imperfect understanding? What am I in my smallness to love the world and my family so much? What to make of the urge to do good?
I am here and I will remain. I am on my way to my hometown and I will do what I can to enjoy it.
Thank you my darling Millie for Winter Rose, it'll keep me going these days.

We all have our drugs. mine is writing, reading. To loose myself to imaginings, to forget all others for the pleasure of fiction. It is a drug as consuming and confusing as any pot the pot the others could smoke.

I lull myself to sleep with the chatter of my aunt and mother, with the gentle rocking of the highway. The arms of prismatic noon warmth hold me. I sleep.

The comforting smell of fur, to caress, to softly bring to the skin. One feels one knows nothing. Careless, disgusting child.

I look out the window and there are the old remains of an hacienda, well known friends of previous trips. Of the early years i can recall only trees, that vague sense of waking up to the rain and the muddled greeness of the woods. What is it that has changed? It is a cold stepe of squalid houses. it is something more, quite another menaing. Cacti and an old tired donkey.

We start out well, with laughter and children and play. I want to see them open their presents tomorrow night.

I am trying to recall the wonder of sites too well known. The brief musical whistle, the couple on a bicycle, the open arms of the magueys. Pale faded sprouts and yellowed grass.

Back
It's been ages since I've last been here, a lot has happened since then. I am happy again and that is probably the reason why it has been so hard to write. Not euphoria nor a dreamish calm. I'm just plain happy, content one could say.
I am back home since Wednesday, free from school even though wearisome thoughts keep slinding in an out. Things left half way, grades that are not pleasing that are not ENOUGH.
It's merely a mark

Strange Melancholia
It's one of those days isn't it? Where the strange dreariness of days and dreams past catches up on me and smiles, sweetly, reminding me of a time when I could be held, when the cloak of love's regrets closed around me and rocked me to sleep.
It's one of those days, that has me sitting in a cafe, thinking, thinking. Wishing for someone to share the hours and the music and the infinite tenderness of a cup of peppermint tea.
It's one of those days when I wish to say everything and anything, when I keep going back to the early dawn of my infancy and gathering from a tangle of memories those special stories, those special treats, all that makes me myself and that I wish to show the world.
It's one of those days when I want to write a thousand meaningful things, when I want to reach out and create a garden of stars and people it with my own personal dieties.
Do I bow to them?
Yes, sometimes, but mostly it's conversing with them in quiet tones of equality.
Tickets to Mexico in the bag and the Australia hope shattered by material concerns. It's some 17 thousand american dollars to Australia. How much to Greece? How much to Paris?
Oh yes world, I'm running away to Paris.
You just wait for me.

Regarding character development

The meaning of the word scream

Quiet the storm, needle inserted, the image of all humanity. Woman, eyes closed, face distorted. Not a word but the vacuum of silence swallowing all and the contortions of flesh as an acrobat on the high rope.
Or whatever it's called.
There's a power in the sight of a girl falling to her knees with something between laughter and utter despair coming from her lips. There's tyhe power to frighten and to disturb and there's no word worth the depiction.

Calm returns with the unfolding of each new day and the realization that there are more, urgent, present matters to attend. There is a realization of the effort we are both putting into forgetting, storing this ugly incident in the back of memory and never bringing it up again.
Though there is no conclusion there is continuance, there is a thread to weave, there is the insistant pull of life that goes against all inertia. Maybe there are no conclusions in life, maybe I need to start learnig to live with that fact. That the time has come to ignore all truth and meaning and simply go on.

My dad insists upon medication.

It brings an ugly vulnerable feeling that he thinks this.

I'm not crazy. I don't have a chemical disorder that goes farther than a slight aneamia.

But he said it was ok if I wanted to live with him. I don't, but I'll do it anyway, because mom does deserve a rest and dad does deserve to see me cry and break down now and again. It's just fair isn't it?

It's been bloody freezing back here in north California and I'm tired of being sick. Thinking of getting a pair of gloves and a new sweater. Thinking of going to San Francisco in a long weekend. Thinking quite suddenly of the boy who said I'd traveled a lot. I have.

I think that the decision to live with my father is the right one, even if it'll be pure hell I think it'll make me stronger. There's an edge of vindictiveness in the promise of such a life, there is the slight expectation... what will mom do without me? Will she miss me? Will she wish I hadn't gone?

No inspiration, homework and the small desire to build something, draw something maybe, but mostly just exhaustion, aimlessness, the feeling that you are a storm swept leave that stands very still, unable to forget the roar of wind and the pressure of water against a broken soul.

My say

I don't write this blog for other people. I write it for myself. I write it so that I can complain. I don't want it to appear as a plea for help everytime someone reads it. As far as I am concerned I'm saying anything and everything that comes to mind, everything I want to put inot words and can will be in this blog. It's not definite, it's not a scripture of who I am. It is a growing living entity that is moving with and beyond me.
If I am suicidal one day it doesn't mean that such a state defines me. Things happen, things pass.
I don't want compassion or tears and I don't want to go crying to other people's shoulders. When and if I do is because I want to at the moment and because I managed to say what's on my mind.
It's not a cry for help, that's why there is no tagboard on it.
I don't write this to distress or to make myself the victim. I write this because I need it and I find that through the web I feel more encouraged to keep writing than through a simple notebook.
There is no brandishment and there is no meaning, this is my life and it's not a statement.
This is the place where all changes and begins anew.

11/02/2003: Wish

I wish to die.
I wish to put an end to all illusion and all strife. I wish to end all suffering and think no more. I wish to runaway because I am a coward. I wish to escape the fact that I’ll never grow up and that I’ll never do anything. I wish to stop crying and to put an end to the imprisonment.
My house has been a microcosmos all this weekend. There was no world and no people outside the walls of this house. There was no other soul but my mother. My mother who is strong, my mother who is disappointed with me. My mother who won’t trust me, my mother who has made absolutely clear that I am still the spoiled brat I have always been. How many times do I have to repeat myself that people don’t change, that we are doomed to be what we have always been, that I will never go beyond a glorious expectation, that I will always be on the brink of something beautiful.
I’ll never get anywhere, life is as hopeless as ever, all my plans and all my decisions are for naught because I do not have the strength of will to see them through.
I have nothing and no one and I cannot die.
Because my mother is most right when she is honest and she is most honest when she is furious at me. No matter how long I repeat myself that this is a phase that it’s just a lapse, that an incident does not make a liftime I’ll know that I will keep doing it all my life, that I’ll never finish anything worthwhile. That I am an imbecile and a child and that all I can ever hope to get is a mediocre job with some relation that feels pity for me. That I’ll never be able to take care of myself and that I will always be my mother’s ungrateful daughter.
I have no one in this whole town but my mother. I feel homesick and miserable and I hate making my mother angry. I hate making her worry. I hate reminding myself what I am.
Because I hate making mistakes.
There is no hope and there is no salvation and there is nothing I can do about it
I feel so alone and I want to go home.

For a second I had thought I could picture the scene. Tomorrow, not going to school, calling Millie with a few quarters. Telling her how sorry I am and how much I love her and to tell all the others I love them too. Then... going to the pier and just doing it. Letting gravity do the dirty work for me, letting myself fall into the icy waters. Maybe they’de save me and I would go to the hospital and I would live, but there would be a change, something to break the chain of alternate misery and bliss.
I told my mom, because I could not eat normally and I could not stop crying. I could not just keep it to myself.
I am a coward.
I’m calmer now. I needed her to tell me I could make mistakes. I needed her to give me permission to be human. It’s so funny. I needed her to tell me she made mistakes too. And she did, nothing has changed though. She is not a tender thing with me, she demands and punishes and tries to show me life and impose limits. I don’t know if she is doing right or wrong there. I have always felt that she is right, that whatever she does is for the best.
Rain falls, blessed rain, that measures the instants in droplets, that lulls me to sleep despite all pain and all madness. Things always go on as they were. My mother is afraid I might do it, but I won’t. She thinks I need medical attention to stop thinking about it, I do.
The fact is, I don’t want to surrender. However long the road is or however hard I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to end all possibilities with the last sweet promise of death. I want ot know the world as much as I ever did.
But I want rest now. Rest and maybe tomorrow things will make sense again and I can go back to the daily routine that so saves me from despair.
I can work and think I’m going somewhere.
I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know if I’m right, I know I want to be held and I know I want to go on. But I’m tired now.
And it’s got nothing to do with failing Math because I could care less. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that I forgot to call from the party or that I could care less for the tylenol; no, it’s none of these things. It’s scaring my mother, it’s making her angry, it’s disappointing her that moves me to nausea and wrath.
Because she is my model and my inspiration and all the strength I want. Because I don’t care for boyfriends or grades, but I care for being good at what I love to do. And she is good at her work and she works hard and she has strength. She has a strength that my father can never hope to have. She has a will that my father could never even touch.
I want to be like her. I don’t want to be like my father.
God, I just want to be like her.

27/10/2003: Love Song

I wanted to work on Joel’s letter tonight. I wanted to thank him for sending things to me and I wanted to make beauty for him to read.
I’m crying now, and it’s a mixture of frustration and regret. A mixture of what I’ve done and what I cannot do now. It is me feeling like the greatest fraud alive. A feeling of uncertainty and doubt, doubting my own abilities has always been the greatest danger to me. And now I am here thinking of the past and doubting my choices, hearing the dark voice of someone telling me of a boy whose heart I broke and I can only hate myself.
It’s sitting in the class with the heat pouring in and the voices and the people and the knowledge that you are neither loved nor understood. That you are alone, that you won’t make it, that you cannot bring meaning to the noise around you. That regardless of all efforts or prayers it will always remain the same. A class without teacher, without the interest to go on.
I wanted to listen to Joel’s CD but I simply couldn’t. REM plays on my mother’s computer and it makes me want to cry. This is a CD Adrian built on broken hearts and fallen hopes as he does often. That’s why all the songs are appropriate. That’s why I can here recrimination in them.
What would have been if I had murmured words of love that long ago afternoon? How would the world be had I pretended, had I tried harder, had kisses meant something that was not revulsion to me? And I broke that boy’s hear and I tried to break Joel’s and I had never thought I could, could with so much ease do such a thing.
Do you wanna flap your wings and fly,
Away form here?
God what am I that I cannot find myself or my genius? God what have I left in my hands when all I can say is not worth the time to type it? What am I when all the beautiful ideals of Messiah slip through my hands quicker than hourglass sand? What can I do now, or think, or be or breathe?
Everyone is rising to a better future, everyone is making an effort and building their life around them with a precocious intensity that I crave. Can I sit down and write for Sebas and the magazine something worth their time? I don’t need the excuse of Trigonometry to fail, I don’t need to occupy my mind with other thoughts. I need only sit here and attempt it and nothing will be right ever again.
I need a point in the distance to fix my eyes unto, I need the clarity of purpose that writing for CoR gave me. I need to find something I lost on the way to this very moment; something that was in Faust and Elaine, something to bring meaning to what I do and write, something more than a stream of ideas hastily stitched together.
Cause this won’t work right now the way it once did
Cause I have to decide between survival and bliss
And though I know who I’m not I still don’t know who I am
The crying stops and the breathing grows slower. Life continues between music and solitaire and the need to forget what hurts us.

My Immortal
Has the world ever known such a love? Has any truth ever been spoken from lips that are not a child’s?
We stood still and we were children. The wind tugged at our hair and we looked upward. We reached out for the night sky, snatching at it greedily as a child must. We were shameless
Together we hung the night upon our garden, creating a fairytale were monsters and princes were but our faces painted in words.
We were still.
We hurt and tore at each other and cried out in pain when no one might hear. When she was afraid I held her in the warm darkness and told her stories. When I was in pain she raged as I wouldn’t and dared as I couldn’t and knew me as no one else did.
And when the moment came and she betrayed me I looked down with cold eyes and could not forgive.
We stand in the ashes of waht was and find that we haven’t changed. We know each other as ever we did. She is still my sister and I am still her mother. We have bridged distances in time and soul and we are still, infinately still, as we draw the last breathe.

So little time...
Six days in hell ... six days in hell...

All the time in the world wouldn't suffice to finish all I have to do by the end of this week. So me being the new me, school takes on priority. Trigonometry, then Biology then English. It hurts of course to leave so many good stories and drawings hanging in the meantime, but I could never do them all if I had 48 hours to each day.
It seems as if that fierce desire in me to create must wait.
God I can't truly write anything decent in the school computers but I must try, at least pick up this diary again before I go out of my mind.
I'm happy, terribly tired but happy. I'm also reading Virginia Woolf. I want to paint a canvas with all the images in my head, to feel the warmth of mink coats and watch the snowfall as my train runs across the Siberian scape.
I can see Paris, tortured eyes fixed on the window, turning the soft color of cream amidst the Greek sun. He is fragile he is weak, he is hopelessly agonizingly in love. He is walking into the great mysteries and death knows him.
Sandalphon is alone, looking at the night sky in a desolate ruin, hair billowing in the wind like soft silk threads caught by ever so many currents. He is alone, untouched by death or destiny. He is himself.
But those are just my fancies for the moment and I better organize them into coherent thoughts before Istart writing. I need titles and chapters and plots and twists.
I need time in the weekend, time that will not be spent doing trigonometry essays. I need to take a deep breathe and go to sleep.
But before that, I need to get my library card, my check cashed, my gloves and Joel's medallion.
I need to take a deep breathe and start walking.

You are a descriptive writer. An avid reader of
Robert Frost, perhaps, you LOVE to use flowery
words and use the paper and pen as your canvas
and paintbrush. You prefer to paint a mental
image rather than simply toy around with
people's minds. A very inspired person, you
love to be in nature and usually are a very
outdoorsy type of person. A writer with a
natural green thumb, perhaps?


What's YOUR Writing Style?
brought to you by Quizilla

Cada vez que trato de serenar la tormenta, sólo regresa aun mayor. Y la siento atrapada en algún lugar de mí y es tna injusto – como un sacrilegio mayo – que todo lo demás siga igual. Todos rien y no saben, nunca saben y tú mueres mientras ellos rien. Tratas de subir el volumen y ahogar la quietud, que todos sepan que sufres, que gritas en silencio de asfixia y ya no lo soportas y gritas y gritas y gritas una y otra vez en silencio para que nadie lo oiga nunca y sientes como estalla tu garganta y los trozos de músculo y cartilago cuagulan en tu corazón, se pegan, adhieren a las cavidades de tu mente y entonces te canzas... y ya no queda nada.

Es un error escribir en agonía,
por que no te concentras y nunca
llegas a decir lo que buscas
que salga. Tal vez por que no
existe y tu agonía es sólo un
invento del mundo.

¿Cómo capturar el estasis del mundo a tu alrededor? Es como pelicula deslavada que se repite hasta el fin. Pelicula en technicolor para tu descanso final. Hace frío y me duelen los ojos.

Something I wrote almost two years ago. Back then I didn't like it but I didn't want to throw it away either. It's been that way with most of my writing, they are all loose pages of a journal that would be too grand to imagine it were it all together.
I'm starting a novel now, and it's really happening.
I feel like ending so many things before I start truly this great work.
I typed many of the pages I brought with me, cleaning one of my old notebooks. I looked through old and new work. I feel ready I feel purged.
Today has been a good day, even though I've had the worst mood since the English class. I look forward to Writer's Workshop so much and yet nothing happens. I've started out the sex scene between Rahab and DMdaddy, I need to finish it soon, that and Anabel/Elaine thing. In a few moments I'll walk to the bank of America, I'll cash my check and buy some books for Joel and perhaps my gloves too. I'll get registered in the library and I'll go back to my house and collapse on the sofa.
God I wish I had someone to talk to about all these wonderful plans and hopes, but there's no one, there's only the blank pages of my blog.
Somehow that is enough, it's not the best possible, but for now it is enough.
And thank heaven I will be able to do my Trig homework, even if it is much!
My daughter dearest Marina wrote to me I'm so happy! Uploaded her link botton!

18/10/03: Pouring it out
I’ve finally done it, finally decided to dare, finally gathered my courage and started a novel, a novel for my epic The Fall of Knossos.
It’s been long days since I’ve taken the time to sit down and record my mood. It’s probably because I’m so happy lately, I’ve got people to talk to, books to read, places to be. I met Terry Pratchett, I went out with the people at the Writers Workshop, I discovered the public library, I took up Messiah again.
I’ve forgotten about Trig, because I have people to talk to. My mother says I probably have more friend than in Mexico, not dearer to my heart, but more yes. I’m swelling up with ideas and opinions and plans and enjoyment. I’m happy and able to take life to me as it comes. The ups and downs have come but mostly I’ve left them behind. I do not cry anymore and I don’t have nightmares. I’ve taken up reading books again and I am so glad of it. I wish I could go everywhere and do everything. I’ve been leafing through some guides of Greece for Knossos, I want to go there and to so many places.
I want to see movies and hear songs and find more books.
I am so full of a strange childish delight.
Of course school and school work still leave me quite exhausted, but my ‘F’ in Trig stays and I’ve decided to stop worrying about it. If I don’t pass I’ll do the exam and that’s that, I don’t want to anguish myself about it. But I don’t want to leave it all again, like I did when writing for CoR. I want my life, deperately, greedily. If something is to engulf it then I want it to be mine, my work, not someone else’s.
I still want to write for Christian and not for Ake but with Furya and Alex yes. I want people who love what I do and what they do with me. As always I want communication and to bridge distances. I want to be known and loved.
I am flawed.
Whatever Joel loves of me I am not it. However good he thinks me I am not. Even though I want to think myself good I am not. I am merely human. I try my best; it is not always enough. I am jealous and petty and despair from times to times. I do not believe in higher beings or in God or in earth or anything. I believe in the people around me and the love I have for some of them and the understanding of human nature to the rest. I believe people should not hurt other people, but I believe it is inevitable. I believe in not having sleepless nightmares over the poor in my country yet I look at these wonderful schools and libraries and it fills me with a since of wrongness. What am I?
So many good writers have kept diaries and sent letters. Is it cold of me to want to emulate them? Do I pretend when I send letters and packages to loved one. Maybe, if I become great someone might gather all this up and print it as a collection of my early work. When I am dead that is.
I’ve already thought of the dedicatory in my book...
For Christian and Millie and Joel and my mother, for my players and my dearest Andy.
For the people who have build this story without knowing it.
I believe in life Joel. In experience and in pain as much as in happiness. I believe in mistakes and in journeys and I believe in losing oneself. I believe that a rich life is worth it all and I want it. I want the pain and the sadness and the despair and the love and the delight and the maturity and the calm.
I don’t think I want the children.
But I want the friends and the soulsisters and soulbrothers. I want to touch others as this world has touched me. Because the world is good, because change is good and all must die to truly live. I believe in everything and in nothing.
I want to have it all, piece by piece and to be myself. I want to be unique in this world and to raise my voice.
Today I went to a booksale from the library. Books were not organised and you had to veritably hunt for the ones you wanted. As I passed through the fiction section I stared and wondered if I’d ever make it out of the list and into the limelights. If I’d ever be as great as I want to be. People tell me that does not matter, that does not define my worth. But it matters to me. Not so much to be known but to know I am good.
I started to write fiction because I liked to read. Because in what I read I found gaps that I wanted to fill, because I realized I wanted to write books that I’d like to read. I started writing for myself. Because I enjoy reading myself and looking back, digging stories others forgot to write and I scribbled down.
I don’t know much about anything except writing. I don’t know much about science or math, I don’t know much about movies or music or sex. I don’t really know much about those people who have nothing to do with me. I go and see ‘Thirteen’ and think that my life is so boring. I do not smoke I do not party I do not drink, not because I scorn it but because it bores me. I’m a virgin and no one has ever abused me or hit me. I don’t have any great love story of boy and girl, but I do have some interesting ones about child and child. Yet I wouldn’t want it any other way. I wouldn’t want to be a different person.
I know what I like even if it’s not what others think good work.
I don’t have much to say about my life experiences and maybe that’s why I take up fantasy fiction. Nothing interesting has ever happened to me.
I know that I love Joel as the great friend he is, but I can’t make the connection I think is true love, maybe I’m just asking too much of life. I keep wondering if he knows me, because he says all these wonderful things about me and I can’t honestly believe it. Because you love people for their flaws as much as for their virtues. You love them because you know them. I don’t know if I know Joel. I can’t trace the contour of his face with my mind or say he’s very annoying when he does this or that. We do not speak on a daily basis. We do not have that same favorite spot under the tree or simply hold each other.
But I know I want someone to love, someone to share this aspect of my life with, someone to have by my side in weddings and funerals. I know I want to walk down my favorite streets with him whoever he will be and just be together. No need of telling each other things or even holding hands or anything, just together.
And that is precisely why I want to give it a try, that is why I want to go to Australia and have him near, just to see what happens. No expectations, no disappointments, I wish things could be so clean and hopeful. I want to fight with him and hurt him and him to hurt me because that is how people know each other. I want to forgive and understand and have that thing after the great romance that is true love.
That is why I will send him books, my books. Becuase those are the things that have made me. The people he knows mostly. I’ll give him the ideas and the music. Soul music. I’ll give him who I am and who I love to be. That is also why I’ll work on Clouds over Styx.
No Joel I am not Celia with the sad look and enduring wisdom.
I am human and I love it. I am sensitive and I cry. I sing when I walk to or from school, not beautifully but because I love it. I look into space and think up fantastic plots that never reach the paper. I talk too mcuh when I’m happy and I try very hard to hear others but sometimes I get so tired. I am arrogant and childish and judge people too quickly. I think I’m morally superior to most people my age I know and I look at them and try to disect their reasoning. The only person who I don’t do this to is Millie, because we are so mcuh alike. When I was thirteen I was bulimic like my mother feared, not too much and never too serious. I had tantrums at school and dropped my bag and cried. I ate sugar in secret when there was no candy.
I am human.
When I’m in a bad mood it shows, not because I’m actively horrible to others but because I’m withdrawn and sullen. I get hurt easily and I pretend I don’t need to tell people. I pretend to myself that I am sick when I don’t want to be with my family. I carry books and journals so I won’t have to listen to them. And yet I love each and everyone of them very much.
This is me. This is who writes this blog. This is the author and the girl.
Goodnight Joel. I love you.
I do.

9/25/03: Recovery of Sight
On my way up North
Up on the venture
I put back the hood
And I was talking to you
And I knew then it would be
A life long thing
I haven’t stepped here in a long time, have I?
It makes me ashamed and that’s why I’m back, just to jot down the myriad casualities that have taken place in these last days. But first I’d rather get a few things out of my mind.
Today was my WriterEgo workout, or something of that sort, that is why I can’t and won’t sit down to do Trig. All day just waiting for the field trip in English, fearing my piece wasn’t good enough, my pride hanging on a very thin thread indeed. It was everything I hoped for, the café, the attention, the other pieces.
It was a gorgeous coffee shop, with a back garden with large round tables made of rough cut wood. They were low and had cloth pavilions above them. There were flower hedges and sunlight and people’s attention did not wander often.
Annie was a girl who’d been in my group during the English class Writers Workshop and what she read was such a superb improvement on what she’d been working on at first. It made me feel good, made me feel like we’d worked on something, but it also made me realice that everyone can do this, everyone can write and be good at it. It’s just a matter of passion. Perhaps they won’t be the best but they will have good things to read. I can muster that passion but I don’t know if I have what it takes to bring it to the next level, to be truly great, to be more than a storyteller and become a true creator. To breathe life and truth into what I’m writing about. To make people feel things.
Miss Franke had to read my piece, I wouldn’t risk faintness or tension to ruin it. I’m always seeking to leave impressions, to provoke reactions, to leave something of what I see and feel into others
I can’t tell if I did so at the Union Café even though I heard murmured admiration.
And I met Alicia. Alicia has a soft leather jacket and straight hair the color of browned honey. Alicia has the type of pleasant interesting face that goes in and out of your mind. Alicia talked to me all the way back to school.
(Did I tell you about Virginia? She’s a year lower than me, sits one seat away from me in Biology and plays tennis. She also has a marvolous sense of humour.)
I answered my emails and wrote to the people I love. Do they miss me? They did, but we are all growing stronger.
(My mother said I’m growing strong as an oak, her very words. Can I say that I nearly cried? Good. I’d never felt such a pried as then. Because mommy has done so much and knows so much, because mommy has never said such a thing to me. Because I am foolish and vain and need to be loved.)
I believe I’ve found my place in the SCHS Writers Workshop (taking place from 3:30 pm to 5, Thursdays(yes there is such a thing as Writers Workshop and I’m in it and scared to my bones), I’m happy again, happy as I have not been in a long time. These people wanted to hear me and I wanted to hear them. I was not just another writer, they loved me, the piece I was reading. I felt so proud.
I was told to work on character development.
I was ecstatic.
Well then, the CoS characters are finally taking shape and I will be writing their profiles in the next couple of days. I’ll also be writing down the info and observations and general ranting on them as I think that will be much more enjoyable to read to the rest.
Rodion (of course) of whom I still need a last name, Leticia D’habi (formerly Amelia but as she has both changed and matured from the original model she will receive a new name (subjected to changes if I find a better one in the Bible) and of course because the name was being used by my dear Joel and I don’t figure that there’s enough space for two Amelias in DM’s Fury), her sire Dorian Martense (scion of the founding family of the Martense University), Pia Orfanos (new name for an old denizen of my world, that nice Daughter of Cacophony who Nora was in love with and taught her all she knew; recently helped form the ‘Pack of Nights not Forgotten’ along with the koldunic sorceress Pavla (who needs a last name) I figure they have been walking side by side since the eleventh century back when Pia was still Panthea the Lamia in service of the Capadoccian Clan), Andrew Broderick (that werewolf based on the real A.B., nice brilliant kid who had everything and lost it all in that first moment of Rage; this time he’s alone, Taltos must’ve died or something, must make that a side story for CoS), there’s also Ophelia who is new and came up with the sudden concept of a group of homeless and beggars who worshipped Stryxoph and were under her wing (they’re all quite insane and prone to prophetic visions and mad feats of dancing; I want to make an Orlando among them but I still need to work on him) Ophelia wil be everything Rodion could want, also a new and first Nosferatu who’ll get to be the scourge of Purgatory (him I want stylish and intellectual and some sort of Russian emigre, kinda like Boscav but ‘nicer’) and finally Rahab D’habi formerly Sarai who gets a new name along with a new appearance and the same self-destructive ambitions.
All in all was a pretty nice day
I put the hood right back where
You could taste heaven perfectly

Last Night’s Call
You look into the future long enough and you start planning. If you are like me, these plans are no longer just a possibility, they are your destiny.
Some people just don’t plan.
They know who they are and they take life as it comes and life ends.
And it’s not fair.
The only thing I can really acertain now is that. My aunt Tilina is going to die. There is no hope, the virus is eating her brain away and she’s going to die.
I keep repeating it to myself to make it real, to visualize a world without her, without this person who was so good and beautiful and happy. I can’t, she just can’t die.
It’s not as it had been with me before, there’s no resentment, no defiance, no ‘how dare you die on me, how dare you disturb my life with this sorrow’. She just can’t die, she just can’t go out, with so many thiongs she enjoyed and loved and celebrated of life. With her way of dressing up everyday to look beautiful for herself, for her husband, for her sons. With her rapid torrents of warm words for you, strong embraces, endless help. She was always doing something to make others and herself happy; preparing a party, a dinner. She and my uncle didn’t save for the future, they lioved their joy in the now, sharing it with everyone.
She was the sort of person who made made common, frivolous things shine with goodness.
She was always well.
Always happy.
Always there.
She can’t even swallow on her own now.
She’s dying... and it sucks.

I wrote this a couple of days ago, when my mother’s sister called to tell us the news. My aunt Tilina, wife of one my mom’s brother, was not going to get better. Her name is Mathilde but we all call her Tilina and she has a neurological virus that will eventually kill her. This has nothing to do with Santa Cruz or with my current mood. This is more important than that. This will not change according to how I feel, because it’s too important.
I needed to talk about it when I wrote the above, but there was only my mother, and I would not torment her with that. Thus I wrote it down.
It’s not clear and it has no beauty and no artistic merit, but that’s that.
The reason why I’m writing now, not directly into my blog but in a word processor to later upload is that I want a testimony of this woman.
Thinking that she will die and the world will not know how she was after her memory is gone from our hearts is hurting. Because Tilina was someone who aught to be remembered, and because her death will be a tragedy in every possible sense.
She was tall and from the northern part of Mexico. I don’t know the real colour of her hair, but since I can remember it was dyed red. She was the kind of woman who lives all her life as a housewife with no other aspiration. And she was good at it. What is more, she liked it. She was not a submissive weak creature of kitchen and home. Her northern blood strengthen her and made her into a formidable worker. She might’s been a hyperactive person but was never diagnosed it. She was always doing things. She was always cooking for large numbers of people and enjoying it. She liked making big boistrous parties and she loved her husband. She is fifty and she will die loving her husband.
I think that’s something to be proud of. In a world where couples no longer stay together for very long they will be parted by death. Not two months ago you might’ve seen them dancing after their eldest son’s wedding, carressing each other with that near comical solemnity which conventional marriages produce. But you’ve never seen it with such a passion.
When she went into the hospital her husband gave his younger sister money and told to go but her to go buy his wife some nightgowns so she’d look pretty. He knew she wanted to look pretty.
You know she used to drive her van to the site of construction that would soon be her new house? She would take my mother and my grandma and me and show us her fruit trees and her wall for the garden and the dug pitches that would some day grow into her house. She went to the materials provider and loaded her truck with the things needed and take it herself to the site when it was needed. She also made the meat for her youngest son’s restaurant when he asked her to and went to get her hair fixed eveyday.
She was not a thin woman nor a fat one at that. She was a robust matron of fast firm movements and she was also very funny. She called my grandmother ‘Mama’.
Try to picture her in your mind as a woman of heavy built with thin crepe hair always fixed, a woman with heavy breasts and large hips who knew she was beautiful and took joy on it.
That was the most important trait my aunt Tilina possessed. She took joy in everything she did. She was happy with who she was and through that happiness she made good things happen.
She was not perfect. She did not a have a University career or wanted one. She was a frightful gossiper like most wives are and she had quite a rivalry with my other aunt-in-law, but she was happy with them. She and her husband had financial problems often even though he was a doctor and made for a very good salary. As I’ve said they weren’t much into planning for the future and they had few savings in the bank. But they always had good wine and good cars and good meat. And they enjoyed it.
As my mother said, it wasa good thing that they did not save for the future. Nothing would’ve cured my aunt of this virus no matter how expensieve. It is good that they used the money as they pleased.
They had time to see two of their sons get married (they have three) and one of their grandchildren be born together.
People around her were shaken to see her so sick when she finally accepted to be lead into a hospital. It was as if a pillar had fallen. Because that’s what my aunt Tilina was, a pillar for her family and friends, the person who could organize a wedding enjoy it till four o’clock in the morning and then take all her relatives home to continue the party. The next day she would wake and receive presents and dance with her husband slowly and stiffly and with such an adoration that would have shamed Romeo and Juliet.
She did not live in reality sometimes and she wanted all these things wonderful and grand around her. She wanted to be strong forever and she would not take the anti-depressives when the first breakdowns began. She was so healthy she would not admit to being sick till she began to limp and lost mobility of her left side.
The last time I saw her was in the hospital and I nearly fainted. I’ve written about it somewhere else and I do not care to recount it. But she cried when she saw me and I must say I felt like crying too.
I don’t think people like her should die, but the world is hardly and ideal place and we must accept it. Cut I can tell that this world will be a colder, meaner place without her and I am sorry for it.
It is such a relief to be crying now, not because I feel sick with longing but becuase this life is going. I’d never felt sorrow so clean as this for a death. This is not going to make a major change in my life like moving here did. Her death is not going to disband my immidiate family like my granfather’s death did. But when I was at his funeral I did not cry. I had my best dress on and I did not cry. I was twelve.
I thought I needed to cry, that it was the proper thing required from a little girl who just lost her only grandad, but I did not want to. I felt no need to do it. I looked at the grisly thing that lay in the coffin and I felt no great sorrow taking hold of me. It was like looking at a wax model, impersonal and distant.
I won’t go to my aunt’s funeral. I wouldn’t stand the sight of her dead.
Because I knew her in the full flush of life, with strength and courage to make goodness in the world, I would not stand them to make a wax doll out of her.
And that is all I have to say on the matter.

World without End... Amen
I thought you was smart
I have a wonderful headache and I'm writing from the computers at my mother's office at UCSC. I didn't have much sleep yesterday, or the day before...or the day before that. Homwwork is taking all my time and energy and it feels so unclean, so trivial to be bothered by it...
I thought you was smart
But I have to contend with it don't I/ To turn everything in and go prepared to the tests and sit down and just work on my essay. Because I'm an intelligent girl, I come from a good British school and I already know half the things we're doing in Biology and English. I cannot fail. I will NOT. I will not suffer the humiliation of failing here, I will not stand a D or an F just because I didn't have the will to put my knowledge into use.

But I feel so stupid. Just now and then, nothing really serious, late at night when I'm most vulnerable and realize how long it's been since I wrote anything of value. It hurst my pride, I cannot deny it.

So far so good. It's not all hell here, even though I still don't have many friends. It's like a dream sometimes, this city, like walking into one of those places where butterflies actually fly around you in no fear. Walking from my school to the bus in the sun, the aroma of the garden hedges is unbelievable, cuagulating the air, perfume running rampant. I love that, I can love that.
I can love being with my mother, just telling her how much I need her and how much I admire her, because she has done so much, gone so far. I do that, every night, when we are eating dinner. I just think it, and tell her that I love her.

There are so many things I'd like to write. So many missing pieces of confession from these last days. No friends. Sebas fallen for Lore. Me falling into a routine. Joel here, always here, to bring me back to insanity with his all too human love. What would I do, what would I be if I did not have him, or Millie or Rick or Marina or any othe other people I have come to love and respect so fiercely. Inspite of distance or age or sex or creed.

I miss my friends so much. There are so many things I would like to share with them in here, so many things I would do if only I had the courage...

I'm not a smart girl really, I can't write as I used to, I fall into the mundane, into this which surrounds me. Eating breakfast, going to school, homework. Smile smile. I am trapped, and I'm beginning to like it...

I just hope my English Essay was good enough. What a blow for Eugene if it's not.

He could see it all. The torn clothes scattered over the floor. The beads of sweat trickling down Zack's face as he forced himself into her, the gleam of sheer pleasure in his eyes, and the tears of helplessness and frustration in hers.

Can you imagine that? Can you see it? I can see it, the faces of two people I know and love... I can see their empty eyes and their broken bodies, laying still, disgraced, hurt in such a way that nobody deserves being hurt.
I don't know why I suddenly thought of that, I don't know why I read and the image a of a pale broken child creeped like some foul breed over my mind. So frightening, so real, it's happened...
I can't understand it... I can't even put it into words...
Pitiful gasps... not even the will or physical strength to scream, blow after blow after blow, just hoping it stops, clinging to the battered hope that it will all stop.
Quiet, not a word. Gasps pants... animal sounds... body aromas... so real, so hypnotic, movemente, slow or hurried and his face... because it's always a girl-child in my mind, imprintings of suffering and fear on the tendre fragility that all children possess. Head loling sideways moving at the rythm of the monstrosity taking place...

My thoughts are racing...they have been like this since yesterday. My mom says it's just the adjusting... it was bound to happen now or later...
I stand in the middle of a crowded hall and know, none of this people give a damn whetherI'm sad or angry or just miserable, so miserable that I can wish for it to end like I've done before. They don't care that I feel so strongly about rape, that it stirrs such a deep emotions of shame and fear and anger in me. This means nothing to them.
It's lonely feeling... it's a burden more to carry.
I'm feeling so tired I don't know what I want, I wish I could have Millie's or Romulus's fics in my hands, printed, ready for me to take them home and read them in my bed while I curl up in a little ball and wait for death.
My head is swimming and I am so ashamed, so angry at myself... at my lack of determination or direction. I don't knwo what to do now and I'm so tired of working of doing homework of slaving myself for people and things I don't care about. I'm tired of being surrounded by people who don't love or know me or care about me.
It's just normal I guess...

My books arrive on Monday... had test today... did more than bad on it... God I need to sleep...

Clouds over Styx
So many things to talk about since the last time I could sit and just write.
I'm tired, just a day ago I was also furious. Discretly so, but with all the strength I am capable of inserting into my self diminishing ravings.
But I have wings again, even though I'm still faintly afraid of using them here. I can write again and I am doing so, after a week or so of writer's block and the trivial burden of homework and trig and making friends and trying to be relatively normal I can do again what I love doing the most. My passion, my very soul.
I'm starting on CoS and the WWII detective story Millie and I were planning.
I received Joel's package yesterday. Having lost hope for the day, having checked for it before, there it was all of a sudden as if coming from some dream.
There's no poetic explaining this. There's only the fact that it made me happy, wonderfully happy. That it made me write again. That it made me want to do things and make things and everything for him. That's how Joel makes me feel. As if I could give the world to him if I just tried to.
New obssession: Spineshank song name of [insert when I find out what it's called].
Things are better now. I'm beginning to think I'll make it through. We went to lunch with Judith on Sunday and we met her son. Her son is not to fond of me but he is my type of people and it gave me hope. It gave me hope to know they do populate my town.
I just need to try some more, just some more...
But I'm tired and I missed the bus in the morning, I don't know why and it must mean something.
I have homework and I'm actually doing it... it feels good.
I can just make out the flame of desire in me, the desire to be the best again. To excel through all barriers. I am vain I must admit and I love being complimented on things I love doing.
Horizon looks brighter... or so I hope.


Joel I love you.

Adrian
I miss you damn you. I miss you so it hurts as everything is hurting. I can't talk to you through anywhere. My phone is not yet installed and oh lord that is such a feeble excuse, such a pathetic reason for anything. I love you and you are my friend and you are in pain and I'm in pain to and I'm not there so we can snap at each other through msn or in live. I'm not there to rave abotu how I cannot help you and still offer the proverbial shulder to cry on.
I'm not there and that's the whole truth of it.
You can't know how sorry I am that it is so.

Tired
Not from a motel any longer but from school. School I have just finished. A school I can't imagine myself returning to tomorrow.
I am so tired it hurts, like a dull ache in my throat all the time it hurts so that I am getting used to. getting used to the nothingness and the dullness and the final certainty that it will not end. That it is not a nightmare.
It seems so long since I last sat down to write here... here or anywhere else. Only four days have elapsed since my life was moderately normal. Only four days and already I have lost all hope. It got better at first, people where nice here, friendly. I thought I could endure it, whil eI am busy I can still endure. I can pretend this is me while I sit down at night and try to do Trig. But I can't imagine myself picking the book and trying to study for tomorrow's quizz. I can't imagine doing anything with such a vehemence, such a will. As long as I have no will I'm happy.
Why shouldn't I be?
We're moved, we're settling in, no problems, everything perfect.
And the void grows ever more.
I can't say I'm not enjoying some of it, but I'm still alone. It feels as if I should be all alone for the rest of this. It's only the second day of school.
Monday was Labour Day and Tuesday I took all day to register and do the assessment.
We have already eaten our first home meal. Spoken to my first girl at school. She sits besides me and wants to study law. I think she wants to adopt me as a little pet sister to care for in Trig. There's nothing wrong with that... but I still have no one to eat my lunches with.
I'm lonely, I'm aimless. I don't know what to do. I can't write anymore and all I draw is trash and I miss everyone and everything so much I think I'll die.
I don't know how to go on.

Variants
She seats upon the heated sidewalk, slowly revealing the form of ehr pointed pencil. Cut here, now, then. She looks to the horizon and the blue blinds her. There is nothing she wants, nothing she longs for. Horizon stretches on forever and ever. She feels lost.
The fire above is white-hot. White she understands, as the greatest extreme of the inner turmoils. She is like that, extremes in the dancing motions of fire. Or so she'd rather think. It helps her sleep at night.

Everybody's Fool
Somehow, somewhere, I feel like I've made a terrible mistake.
My lenses are off and the flower's burning in the afternoon sun are like melting bludges of color in an impresionistic portriat. I cannot help but wonder what Ake would say if he could see the suburban horror of palms and tawny beaches that mocks me as I write. Skaters and bikini clad blondes and the fact that I am probably exaggerating. It may just be the shocking deception, that I had imagined this place so differently and despite my protests thought of it as a chance to find happiness of some strange nature. The climate is strange, the people more so and yet everything recalling some ancient postcard of sentimental value.
I don't feel I'll belong here.
I left my house looking through the door's glass expecting perhaps a little ghost that would not scare me, as the mouse didn't scare me. Because that was not my home any longer. Those were not my problems nor my worries now.
The sense of incompleteness strangles me. I've forgotten something important , so many things I would like to have done or given. Maybe that's the urge to work, to sit outside my motel room and set down what I'll pour into the screen as soon as I get the chance.
I think I'm starting to fear this, more than ever; it is anger and anguish, not the soft, translucent sorrow of the morning or the selfish reticence of the last months.
I had imagined so many things, created a universe where I was heroine and couldn't care less for what all these strangers thought. But the fact is I care, I am starved for love as I've always been. Millie was right, loneliness can kill, and I know I don't want to die.
I was expecting so much of this place and this is only the first real shock, the first real dissappointment. Coming so far down this brave long day, passing through exhaustion and the painful childlike expectancy.
That is me, for whom everything must be perfect and made and handed on bended knees. Every word, every coma in the right place, to create, to give meaning; to make this diary something worth reading. All these abilites I have lost and shattered fot the sake of periodicy, as if I have betrayed my dream , my silent promise to make everything fit. To emulate the great ones of my art.
This will pass, it is only the first instants, it is only the chemics stinging my eyes. It will all pass.
I want to walk along the beach with my mother. I'm thankful, as alwaysshe's by my side.

The Last Word
It seems that I am walking in a dream. That I didn't really wake up, more tired than the day before. This is the last time I write from my computer for some three or four months. I'm leaving, in two hours time. Finally I'm starting to believe it's happening, finally everything is hurting as it should hurt and I'm crying because I'll miss everyone and everything. I'm going to miss my old life even as I start the new one, because I know that when I'm back I'll be someone else, something more.
Fancy words, just dancing on the tip of my fingers as I write them.
I just wanted this day to end. I don't know how we ever got through with everything, with all the things that happened and all the things we still had to do. I don't know how I woke up to find myself ready to take care of my tenth year grades or my mother's backup. I don't know how I could be ready to go and say goodbye to my aging aunt in the hospital or to say goodbye to my friends as I held them for the last time in three months. I couldn't cry. I wanted to, I was just to exhausted and rushed to bring myself to do it. I had a most horrible nausea and a headache, I was so tired, so hot, so hopeless. It seemed I would be sick at any moment and yet I still managed to have everything done... now I cannot seem to shake off the feeling of discontent, that I'm still missing so much and that I want to be on the plane with nothing but sleeping to do. I want to start, I'm so tired of ending.
I'm leaving my house, I want to see the new one. I'm leaving my city and I want to know the new one. I want to get the feel of, the atmosphere, the particular breath of life it will have. I want to feel the streets under my feet and I want to work and I want to do things and create things and I'm so tired...
I went to see my aunt at the hospital... my aunt Tilina. The pillar, the strong one. She's sick, so terribly sick and she is just so vulnerable now. There is no wonder in the pain such a sight must cause to her protected. All my life I have known her strong and well, all my life she has been there, beautiful and wonderful in her own particular way, doing everything for everyone at once.
She can do nothing for herself now.
She's scared but she's trying, she's being strong. She'll get through, I know too many people who have done so to be afraid of this.
Thirty minutes to go and the panic is comign again. I'll say goodbye to everything and I'll regret it every minute and love it for the fact. I'll run into teh arms of the unknown and I'll fear it. But I'm going to be alright and I'll cry and I'll tell Andy how much I miss her through the msn. And I'll write it now for all of them to read, all my friends, how much I love them, how much i need them. Adrian with whom I can speak and cry and work. Lorena with whom I can laugh and forget. With Andrea with whom I can live and relive everything. I'll miss Alan and Paola and I'll miss you Cesar because it's been so long since we've spoken and it'll be longer still. Because I knwo them and they know me, as best as we can we know. And all the tears and all the happiness will leave me empty, ready to be filled in this new place.
Millie i love you, you know me better than anyone, Joel I can't live without you and your simple goodness, Alex and Furya with whom I can talk as much as I can about all the possible worlds, Rick who is adorable in his blindness, Nina and Noemi and Carla because they are special and hae shared sleepless nights both cheerful and agonizing. My darling child Marina, you ahve suffered and missed and I know it... and I'll miss you all.
Millie I'm coming over to see you...
God this is hard, this is really the last time, I want to say something significant and nothing comes out.
I'm worried and my aunt is sick and everything was so depressingly old and worn in there. Such a piercing differece from where Lorena was staying. I nearly fainted then, now my head pounded horribly and my throat ached for crying but there was no fainting. My aunt is such a large patient and Lore was so diminished, she was small and delicate and soft and tender. My aunt is a woman, how scary, to see it all so charply and know it.
Goodbye. I love you all.



The Bound Woman


What sign of the Black Zodiac are you?
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The Hunger's Strike
Two more days till the final hour in my country. My mother has sudden wratful attacks against me and my papers and other things. Everything that I haven't packed or neatly ordered in my room and the vicinities. It's normal of course.
I'm completely out of inspiration and I don't know what to write anymore. I feel I must, record something of the fear and the not wholly unpleasant expectancy I'm feelign towards Santa Cruz. I know I won't be able to do many of the things that usually take up my time in those first days. But I want to see it all. I want to get there and see my hosue and my school and my garden. I want to know where I will sit and write on my notebook while I don't have my computer to do it with.
Mother calls from her room, she calls to say something unpleasant, to cut the flow of words and strangle it with spite.
I must write to Millie, I need her phone number.
I fixed most of the things that were bothering me today. Called the school, scanned what I needed to scan, said my goodbyes to dancing friends. I knwo all the documents I need for school which is a relief considering I so desperately want to attend it. I'm missing one probably, but I'll get it tomorrow, maybe even see my friends. I need to fit all my data into two CD-ROMs and then I'm ready.
Or so I think.
There are still so many things I'd like to do, not really anything about organizing, but creative work, sketches I'd liek to finish, banners and other things. Tie knots, or "atar cabos sueltos" as you say in Spanish.
Went to see Andy on Tuesday. I wanted to see everyone, but there wasn't enough time and she wouldn't come over to watch the movie with me. I should've called everyone the day before becuase I really wanted to see them. But I guess I'm just disorganised liek my mother says.
Ah well, I'm rambling and I miss them already, I must go to sleep and try to fix Andy's blog before I go...

Stolen Pearls
It's been pandemonium these last few days with me having no time, indeed no volition to come near the computer and just sit down to write. This is my last week in Mexico. Things seem to be growing ever more difficult as the final day approaches, my aunt fell sick, my school info si not ready and I get even more scared by the second. I've been doing everything not to think about my departure but all I seem to be doing is fixing those details which will make life bereable for my first months. I need to get my skirt, my CDcase, my drawings scanned and I've been working for everyone lately, maybe as a sort of gift before I leave, or maybe because I cannot bring myself to work on anything that has to do with the trip.
With all the webbuilding and going out that I've been doing there has hardly been a second for me to write, even when I truly wanted to. There'll be even less time once I get there and yet this is something I simply can not let be. I'll stop writing for some days now and gain, weeks even, but always I'll come back to explain my absence to myself and I'll write this for myself and only for myself.
To cry here.
To scream.
To hurt.

Nothing much
Once again the lateness of my awakening leaves me with a strong sens e of distaste. I cannot bare to do so little when I want to do so much.
I better do this fast and go to sleep then since tomorrow I'm going out with friends and I need the morning to scan and get to work on all the art I still owe people.

Sloth
I'm reading the Merchant of Venice. Apart from that I haven't done much, unless all the editing and html writing for my blog has brought.
Today I've felt too many times the need to cry. I don't like doing it in front of other people, I don't like talking about things that bring tears to my eyes or suddenly think about them. It's foolish, exposing myself when I don't like it, thinking of songs, of anything in particular that just stings me so deeply I can't control it. I wish these things were in my control but they're not.
I woke up at an abominable hour today and my mother is right. It does make me feel depressed. The day was beautifully bleak though, and I went to my therapy. I cried over dad again or nearly did anyway. I have the most curious feeling of wanting him to notice I'm reading Shakespeare. I close my eyes and conjure images of him picking up my book and asking me, commenting about it, telling me those tidbits of interesting data he used to give me when I was a child, when he bought me books. They did that for me, my fahter and my mother, they opened the door for me to find out my passion in life and I'm so damn grateful to them. All the stories he told me, all the plays she took me to, every hint on what she thought art was, every book he ever mentioned... and I don't think he cares much for the harvest now it's beginnign to give fruit.
I should go to sleep because I am tired and I am angry at having done so little considering how much there is to do yet. How many things I have to fix in my room and in my life before I go. I should have ordered my books today, I should've called my school, I should've called my dad and told him I wanted to go with him to lunch and get the photos at last... so I could take them with me.
Me and a gun and a man on my back
and I sang holy holy as he buttoned down his pants
I know I must ask him to care, but I don't want to be an obligation. I don't want to be something he has to do, something more in his agenda, another tension in his life. I'm hsi daughter, he
This song stirs something within me, something hurtful and sordid, something filthy and of agonical value. It makes me think of wide-eyed confessions.
If I don't tell these things, if I don't write about them, abotu everything I want to say or do or just shout... then I'll go insane. I know I will, tears streaming down my face and I feel like I could hate him. I don't what to do, I don't know what to say that won't sound childish and stupid. Selfish. Horrible. I want to know he loves me because I can't stand not knowing. I want to know if he'll miss me because I'll die if he doesn't.
I want someone's arms around me. I want Diego murmuring comfort to me. But it's over and I'm in pain.

Tinkering
Already 8 am and I'm trying to see if I can edit this blog to make it look prettier. If I can I'll do some layouts for my friends.

After the whole morning and a large part of the afternoon I have managed to change the background, but haven't figured out how to upload images... till now. Thanks to Lore I have everything ready I just need to finish editing the main pic and I'll be done. I don't think I want various versions.

Back
Late already and I must soon go to sleep, but not without setting down whatever meaningful events to the day.
Had a row with my mother about my responsabilites and money and something completely trivial which resluted in me not goign to see anybody today and doing my duty at my dancing lessons.
Woke up relatively late and am tired due to classes. Forgot my dancing shoes. Must get up early tomorrow and work on a lot of things.
Aesthetic theme comign out somewhat blur. Soemthing to do with mysteries and my complete lack of work on 'Cloouds over Styx' tomorrow I write or I die trying.
Have to scan, have to work... have to stop fearing I am so afraid and so self-concious. I'm going. I'm really going. To where nobody will know me or like me or love me or speak to me for a time.
I'm dead scared. No computer, few books, mother stressed... writing as a succor I guess.
This is disjointed and rather awful. I better go to sleep.
Almost done with Dorian Gray book, I'll finish it tomorrow as a sort of class practice or something.

In memory
Of the many things I can recall from my childhood there are three manias: dinosaurs, marine biolgoy and pirates. Thankfully mmy chosen profession is one that can encompass all three. As a writer I may venture wherever I please and that makes me happy.
I've just come back from watching 'Pirates of the Caribean'. Remembering everything I loved about this particular field remembering how much fun I had as a pirate's daughter when I was eight, how many times I saw a musical or a movie about the Treasure Island, how many hours I could spend just waiting to be let in at the Disney spectacle.
It made my day, and it made my week.
It made me forget yesterday's bitterness and now I decided I'm going out with friends tomorrow. Life is good when my father is not involved.

Out for the day
"Maid in Manhattan" has just ended and I'm a little bit less angry, a little more willing to write thatn some hours ago.
Went out with my father today and I must say the whole day has been a disaster, except for this last movie my mom rented for us. My father can't give me three hours straight just for me alone, I don't know if it was better to accept Saturdays as the day I see him. True, now I spend more time with my cousins, but dad will rather talk with any of my uncles and aunts instead of just looking at me. He never does anything for me exclusively unless I ask him. I really wish that he would one day just surprise me. A real wonderful surprise that shows me he listens. He goes to Russia he brings me tourist t-shirts, he goes to Argentina he does likewise, hell he goes anywhere and he can never think what to bring me. Frankly I don't think he even tries to find things for me. He just dumps whatever in his bag and finds stuff for everyone else.
And of course he could never know. I don't speak to him anymore. I just can't bring myself to talk to someone who doesn't want to hear me. I start speaking and stop midsentence and he doesn't notice. I cry in his car and he doesn't notice either. He laughs and waves my every problem with pseudotheories of pseudosciences.
I even woke up late, around eleven and half in the morning and I was wishing to get up at nine. I went abnormally early to sleep last night, I was tired because Ake, Javier and myself had gone out all day on Friday.
That was enjoyable, that and Wednesday made my week worth everything.
I think my talking to Javier made Adrian uncomfortable, maybe I was flirting and I didn't realise. I shudder to think I could do what was done to me. It troubles my mind of late, Adrian always has that effect. I can't helo him and I can't discenr what is wrong with him. I know he is angry, I know he is sad, I just don't know what to do about it except tell him that I'm there, even countries away I am there for him to speak with, for him to cry with. I'm just... there...

Days the sky cries
Was unwittingly awoke at some time near 8:30 am by my mother and her guest, Enrique. They had a congress today and had to be up and refreshed by 10 maximum. No way to go back to sleep with the noise they were making and frankly it did me good just to eat breakfast and get a bath and start my day in the actual morning instead of noon. I'll be better equipped when dealing with the school timing.
Well ramblings aside, I did manage to produce a decent pic of dearest Celia at last. I also inked one of the sketches I have. I'll do two rough CG colored sketches of both Celia and Claw and two natural media proper drawings of each too. I think I'll try my hand with Rodion in water colours and inks (same goes for Claw). Don't have the slightest idea of when I'll get started with Clouds over Styx again (since I actually deleted all I had, which wasn't much) or with the packing. Choosing what things I'll take with me besides clothes is going to be hard. I think I'll take my drawing equioment, my 'lost soul' diary and both Clanbook: Baali and Revelations of the Dark Mother. Two books I cannot part with. I'll try to smuggle in either Dorian Gray or one of my Lovecraft collections.
I'm tired and I'm still ranting.
Went to the psychiatrist today and I do love that street when it's raining even if it lands me with a pneumonia.
Reeived mail from Millie.
Most add the most imperishable info inside a CD-ROM and take it with me, along with the Office and PS softwares.
God this is becoming real... oh dear lord I can't stand it.
Had the most strange dream Tuesday night, suppose it had something to do with the accident or actually going to sleep early (maybe that's why I haven't had picturesque dreams of late). It was set in a pseudo-castle-manor I am sure I placed in Northern Iberia. There was this old bloated tree, one of those monstrocities who have centuries upon them, and everything was green and the sort of place I love. The tree was nearly black (my psychiatrist says it must be him benerably watching over me, but those sort of trees are not fatherly, they eat the living hiding their remains inside their swollen roots). The castle belonged to a girl called Paola I had known years ago and not even befriended. She had invited us over for vacation and I remember most of my young cousins (both sides) were there. They were all talking about going to a darkkiosk atop a mount that seemed to entretain youngsters in the evenings. It was visible from the castle's grounds and there were lighted paper lamps. Paola escorted me through the rooms telling me that I would be in charge of the keys ('The Other' came to mind). I can vividly remember three things, the dining room of nineteenth century decay and dancness and two inner courtyards both dark and mosso covered. In one of thems workers were busy digging a very square sort of hole, the better for some large structureto sit upon.
It was a very strange and wonderful dream. It was also wonderfully absurd.
Should be going to sleep now. No one seems to appear and I'm rather tired and want to get up tomorrow and do some sketching.
Maybe I'll answer some mails before.
Bought "El manual del guerrero de la luz" at last. I cannot seem to bring myself to read it.

Loved
Today I felt the very first fibers of misery. The ones that loneliness was going to give me, because I was with my friends, and I realized how much I'll miss them, how close is the time when I must say good-bye for almost a year. It hurts, not too deeply at the moment, but I'll know it will be agony when the reality truly strikes me.
My father was quite good to me today. I think he'll miss me too. I also think he is feeling terribly guilty because he took the suggestion of a trip to Queretaro quite well. He must be, we haven't been together much, even thought this was suppose to change. He is still always tired when we go out together and it's sickening. He sees me three hours a week and he's tired. What would he be were I to live with him?
We ate together and chatted away and he bought me jeans and took me to Lorena's house.
Everyone was there. Alan, Adrian, Lore, Andy(along with bf), Sebas and his brother. They were there to say goodbye... and the fact is I don't want to do it yet. Even if they will enter school next week. Even if I'm leaving the week after. I don't want to make this real.
I haven't been able to sketch a proper Celia yet and I'm feeling miserable over "Clouds over Styx". I need to go to sleep and get working tomorrow morning.

The Worst
Ages since I've taken the time to visit my blog. The fact is I've been either busy or tired or too damn idle to bother. Mother went to Buenos Aires and stayed there five days in which I took the liberty of inviting Andy over to sleep. I missed that, I hadn't slept over with anyone for too damn long and this had a perfect timing. It made me feel better, it made me deal with what I had done, what I had been suffering in a more amenable way.
I like the attenttion and I like the concern, I have to admit it.
But I haven't been too loving lately...
It's strange the way I tend to be a right down slut when I'm happy. Especially with my mother. She's the one that talkes the blunt of my temper, adn she let me know in no uncertain terms today.
Got the visa. We're really going. My mind is blank.
Soem idiot crashed on us so horribly that we might've died. If it hadn't been for the sit belts we really would've. I was so scared I wanted to start crying. Needless to say today was a miserable day.
I think I'll call my father tomorrow, very early in the morning just to see if he would take me to lunch before I go to Lorena's house. I'm not going to see him in for months... and he doesn't seem to mind...

Calm
No need to write here for the past days. Perhaps because I finally managed to sit and talk about what was tormenting me. As always it was Millie who made the miracle of rebirth possible for me. Across countires we have found each other and she is the one person who can understand what I go through. she has been there when all the rest have been absent, and she gave me the courage I needed to leave the RPGs. She was right I think, somehow I was strangling myself with them and it was a time to put an end to it. I won't hold myself back like that.
We spoke on Sunday after I had a nervous breakdown Saturday night. I started crying for no reason and scared my mom and scared myself. I was unable to stop it. But my mom has been very understanding of all this, she's leaving today for Buenos Aires. She told me I must try and speak about this with my therapist. All the talking has helped me. He said I was very sensitive, but that there was a very strong part of me that was my stoicism, my dislike of appearing weak before others. Somehow that made me proud and a little sad.
Started with dancing classes again and they have helped.
Tomorrow Andrea is coming over and I'm joyous about it. I have to call the Santa Cruz Highschool and then finish my EoW chapter.

The Shinning
It's there every night, mark it reader, every blessed night and I can't stop it. Whether the day ahs been fun or indifferent or horrible something comes and tries to eat me alive at night. I wish I could lay on the floor and cry all I haven't been able to cry. I don't dare lest I awake my mother.
I was going to add something else but I have forgotten...

Little by little the rain falls and it's inside me for once. I lay in my bed and I cry a little and then I speak with someone through the msn and cry some more. Never the whole thing at once. I feel trapped inside a claustrophobic despair that won't let me feel the scope of all I can feel. If I could just let it all go, break the dam and let the weeping flow free, maybe I'd feel better afterwards. Maybe not.

Father
I think I must start typing the next chapter now, but I'm lonely and there's no one at the msn. I don't want to call Adrian or Lorena since they really don't want me to. I feel lonely and bored. It's been ages since I have gone out and I am so disappointed that my father couldn't take the time off this day to do anything special for me.
I haven't seen him in two weeks, I'm going to Santa Cruz in a month! We won't see each other for months after that and he can't even try to make our few hours a week amenable. He just doesn't give a damn, he doesn't realize that I might hate him for this, or what it will mean if I do. He takes me for granted and I am his only daughter.
I wish I could scream, I just wish I could shout all I feel instead of reducing myself to crying in secret at night or in the kitchen when no one is around. I wish someone would just sincerely offer me to listen, just to hold me whilst I pour out my heart. I don't want a solution, all I want is to say it, to hear it out loud so I can stop pretending I don't feel it.
But there's no one, and I'm still in pain. If I didn't have this place, if I couldn't even write about it even though no one reads it... then I would simply die. All my sense of failure, all my tragedies are for no one except the blank screen of this place.

Ha ha ha...





Take the What Type of Friend are
You? quiz, and visit mutedfaith.com.

Lie
I am vulnerable and I am in pain. I don't know when all this frustration I've been bottling up will ignite and leave me barren and broken. I cry everyday now, and I don't tell anyone because it makes me feel worse. People don't want to hear it, people simply don't care. I've been working so much that the screen has become an unreal nightmare of delusions I cannot recall. My artist's hands are not my own anymore. My state of mind does as it pleases and all I can really conceive as a source of pleasure is hurting others with my pain.
I want to scream at my friends, I want to tell them I want to be heard and appriciated, I must suddenly know if I provoke anything in them, any reaction besides mere friendship. All my work, all I've done is for nothing, no matter how much energy I expend I feel horrible and dissatisfied and I can't stand it anymore. I feel as if I could just tear my skin apart out of pure desperation. I know I won't do it, I know I'll keep smiling and feigning happiness as long as I can, but the ache for communicating grows ever sharper inside me and I don't know just how long I'll be able to take it. And I can't just force it upon them because then it's not real, I am nothing to them because they can not do this on their own accord. What I write is rubbish because it moves no one and it does nothing.
I keep working and commenting and saying nice things because I don't want others to suffer what I suffer; or perhaps it's just the fact that I want to appear as a martyr in my own eyes.
I am sickening, truly sickening.
Didn't go out all day because my friends were hanging out with my ex-boyfriend whom I don't want to see lest I spill all my bitterness upon his poor wretched soul.
I answered most of my mail and posted at StS Relived. I am in the process of reading the EoW chapter and starting my own.
Yes, keep working, or you'll drown.
Ye Gods.

Disillusion
I sit in front of the screen, gazing at it, deciding whether I'll cry or I won't.
For all the work I've done these lasts days I receive no feedback. Sometimes I feel I should just quit all the RPGs and start working on my own things once more, at least I don't expect feedback from those. An odd sort of despair has settled within me and I don't think I'll be able to uproot it. I thought all this time would bring a lot more satisfaction, I hoped I would be able to work on all those things I wanted to. All I've done is rubbish, nothing important, nothing worthwhile and I'm so tired.
Finished EoW chapter today and I haven't started with the new CoR one yet. I want to work on my webpage but I need my scanner to do so. And my books. And I'm just so damn tired.
Therapy back up and it was a nice session, made me feel better and a little less bitter about things.
Doing the Celia sketch for Joel.

Mystic's Dream
There is a powerful desire in me to create, to draw and to write, to inspire others to do the same. I don't know if I'm good enough to do it, I keep comparing myself to Barbara and I am lacking. I do not move others to write as she does, only with her work, I must push them to do so. Everyone tells me what a good writer I am and yet I am not able to create that rapture. I am not able to draw tears like Toffee or to bring discomfort like Millie. I do not draw responses. I am sick, sick of myself and my lack of will. I should be doing the chapter for EoW right now, I suppose Barbara would have already done some six pages and finished the whole damn affair. I've done one and half, almost two, and I still don't have all that I want.
I want to go on with my web page but I keep delaying the graphics. I need my books and a lot more things to keep going, amongst them inspiration. There are so many things I want to write, so many things I want to draw. I am just too lazy.
Went to the visa interview today, was missing a form or something and I couldn't get my visa. Mother was ver sick due to all the anxiety today. I'm a bit sick myself and I want to get this damn chapter over with.

Syria
Made a very good drawing of her on notebook paper... it always happens but I'm still proud of it. I'll try some more later...

Working
Finished the Ghenna Opened chapter and did half a page for End of Worlds. I've been resentful and tired and still biting to my mother. I am disillussioned with CoR, I don't knwo what to do now Mordaunt is dead... and so many people are leaving and there are just too many hard feelings in there, the pace is too hard for me and I think I'm going to crack. I'll just take a vacation for some weeks over at Santa Cruz and perhaps I'll feel better.
This mornign I wanted to lay in the sunlight, curled up like a kitten letting the warmth creeo slowly over my skin, I wanted to work and to create and I wanted someone besides me.
Adrian and Javier weren't in today and I wanted them to see my chapter. Mother took me to the Visa picture and tomorrow we are going to the interview. I have to get up at five am and I must get some sleep. I'll just answer mail and lay down. I worked today or so I hope...

Odd
Wrote this some hours ago while I was trying to doze off.


I'm lying on my bed sobbing. Rain splatters the windows the way I like it to. Rain soothes me, it lulls me to sleep. Just a few minutes ago I was crying uncontrolably. I didn't know if anyone would come, but I knew I didn't want it to be my mother. And yet, not for the first time, I just wanted to be held as I layed curled up in a ball on my tidy bed with the books besides me.
I don't know where the rage and the sorrow came from just now, it feels good to know pain such as this. I wish someone would be here tonight. Because I don't want to stay awake with myself and I know that if I slip into the covers and turn the lights off I'll do just that. I'll lay awake and find more reasons to cry about.
I want to do something now.
To create something.
I don't want to sit still.
My throat feels parched and I'm scared.
Of what?
Rain hums its silent song and I feel like I can forget this moment as if it'd never happened. I'll get lip balm and some water, I'll open Interview and read a little till my mother is asleep again. Then I'll log back on my computer and I'll work.
This won't have happened then.
Except for the fact that these words will smile at me from the screen as I type them.



Finished editing Dariusz/Syria conv thanks God...

And I will think no more
I has been more than a long time since I wrote here, and it's just a reflection of how wrong everything is going and then right and back to horrible and how scared I am. How furious I am with everyone and everything I do... how bitter. I just keep feeling unappriciated, by my mother and my friends. I keep telling myself to understand what they are going through, but the fact is only Millie ever tries to understand what I go through. My mother tells me to live with it, my friends ignore it...
Or maybe it's only the fact that I realize how much I'll miss them, how lonely I'll be when I get to Santa Cruz, how far I have fallen. I, the wretched spoiled child. I am selfish and I am revolting and I know it, but it's just infinately easier to let it all be, to keep writing and forget how much I can hate everything. I can't stand being me, being shut up with myself and my family.
Mother kept taking the computer some two weeks before this. I know she needed it. Her business is always more importtant than mine because she works... I live for my writing, it's one of the few pleasures I have left now and she denies it's importance for me. she thinks I can have ten minutes to write in my blog and that'll be enough. That I can do it all as if it were nothing. I feel furious at having left this place alone for so long, but I had to go to say goodbye to my Grandmother, which I understand, she'll miss us much more than I'll miss my friends probably.
It's so sickening to see how fast I'm forgotten. I work hard to write, I sit down and try to cheer my friends, I just stay quiet doing parties but it's not enough. It'll never be enough. I'm just not good enough for any of them. I love them so much I wish I had the will to do more. I wish I would have the courage to end my life, but I haven't done anything of worth yet... and I hate leaving unfinished business...
I miss D so much I feel I just might drop sick of it. I miss his touch. I miss his eyes. I miss his love.
I went to my cousin's wedding and my nephew's baptism. How fast you are dismissed when you grow up... noen of my cousins are near my age, but when I was younger they put up with me like they put up with my nephew's and nieces now... I just wonder what'll happen to them when they too grow older...
I'm miserable...
Hello

Your voice melts my heart

Just another corny song
Adrian is depressed. I can't help but remember when I was like that too. I shouldn't judge him so hard now, he deserves sympathy from everyone, someone who is going through that deserves all the sumpathy in the world. When it happened to me I was just too afraid to tell anybody because they didn't seem to give a damn, I still feel like that soemtimes. As if the sympathy and pitious glances everyone gives you are worth nothing because you are making them do it. If they really cared they would have noticed by themselves and would give you the love you needed becuase they wanted to, not because they feel they must.
But Adrian is under no such a pretense. So he shows it, he needs not hide it. And as always the world misunderstands and judges and that is unfair. I know it's hard, I know we all have our troubles. But depression is something serious. I had suicidal thoughts, sometimes I wish I had carried them out just to show people what can happen when you are ignored or misjudged.
It's unfair to suffer like that. I told Javier and I'll repeat it till the day I die. Agony is real that is agony, and no one should suffer it. That I find completition through my pain is nothing. I am who I am and very few people feel that way. I'm glad Adrian is saying things, I'm glad he's being nasty and hateful from time to time. He deserves the right to be like that. The world slaps us around and we must be nice to everyone. What are our friends for if not to understand? I don't mean he do it everyday. But I don't want him to keep it in so much it explodes into self-destructive tears and anguish when it finally finds its way out.
I don't want that for anyone.

Late Twilight
Two days without appearing here. I hate it when it happens. I have no excuse
Inevitably detained yesterday. It was my mother's birthday and I had to stay home with her to see a movie. It wasn't half that bad, we rented Gangs of New York and I was tired so an evening at home would have soothed me. Of course I was resentful then, I wanted to go out with Adrian one last time before he went to Veracruz. My mother had been sick for the whole week, so in the end it was quite understandable that she didn't want to go to pick me up anywhere. She just wanted rest.
Well rest she did. We couldn't watch the movie together because she phoned my aunt from 5 pm to 8 pm and then one of her friends from 8 pm to 4 pm. I stayed awake hoping she would let me in to write my blog at least and watched the movie alone. I was furious with her, she had made me stay so we could be together, and she couldn't hang her goddamn phone to give me five minutes! And Friday she was convinced it had been her right and that I couldn't aske her to be perfect. But she can ask me to be perfect. I am not allowed to make mistakes because I'm younger and foolish and my mistakes are too horrible.
Nothing of interest in the morning, just the rushed preparation for Friday's nude session.
Friday I woke tired becuase of my mom's chattering the night before. She hogged the shower and I ran late for the guests who would be arriving. Fortunately I was decent by the time they got here, since they were late. They stayed to long and I only had ten minutes of tolerance for arriving to class on time because of the model. Fortunately we made it despite the troubles. And it was quite a wonderful lesson. The model was a very nice lady who had an excellent temperamente and really enjoyed posing for us. I was left with a desire to do the male figure too. So I think I'll have to get to another class such as this. On Monday we're having our last session.
All these classes have given me practice and I was able to copy the Luna I had done in a small sketch in a large version so that I can watercolour later. I don't want to loose practice so I think I must have to keep on drawing. I finished colouring the Elaine/Liam drawing I had promised Rick. I'm very happr with the results I must say. and Spike did a beautiful Nora for me! I'm so happy! I have so many beautiful pictures of her, most of them gifts.
Well today in the morning I must get up for a swimming party with Dad. Had to get waxed. Horrid. Why don't men do it too?

Lonely and hateful
I was ina very good mood till I got into my mother's car today. I rather be alone wandering through this soulless city than at my beautiful house with my, oh, so righteous mother. Re-reading Decay and Messiah again. I want Eblis or Judas to come sweep me off my feet. To death, to love, to damnation. I don't care. I don't want the stress and the problems of a tripto which I am being dragged, but I'll endure them... and they want me to be happy about it.
Well I know I'm just in a bad mood yet again. Angry because I made Adrian feel ignored yet again. I suppose it is my fault in one way or another, so I'm not rambling about unfairness and all that crap. I was angry and I didn't want to insult him, but I always do so when this happens. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to hurt. I don't want to break my promises. I don't want to go away...
I want to walk through grey anonymous streets, free of all considerations, I want to forget myself in a series of movements and steps like Dora does, I want to loose conscience holding unto the pencil as I sketch life away, I want the prismatic innocence of a careless amateur note, I want the my voice into written words, whether on a neon screen or on yet another incosequent piece of paper.
I want to be with my friends and not feel that they are repulsed by me.
We did feet at art classes. Dora did me the favour of posing for my sketches. she attended the flamenco class with me too and she says she'll be staying.
Tomorrow is mother's birthday and I can't go out.

Little Miss
Little miss miss, she's had some troubles
She gonna sort it out early in the morning
Adrian lent me his BOA CD. It's very good. We went to his house today, after the mornign drawing classes. Today was a very pleasant day.
We did the craneum and the muscles, and we had fun making up a character to draw him. I want to Adrian's house with Lorena and Andrea. We had fun, listening to records, watching movies, reading the Fifth Book...
I don't know why. I just can't understand it. Why the sudden tears again. Why? Damn it why? I've been so happy, so cheerfully deceived and oblivious to it all. I don't want to remember the hate, or the revulsion. I don't want to doubt myself. I don't want to cry with no reason anymore, except for a sad song. I don't want to know how pathetic I am.
Am I this horrible? How come D liked me? How is it that all other men are repelled by me?
Damn him. Damn him for leaving me. Damn him for every uncertainty.
No one can love my women characters, they are as damned as I am.
I suppose I should use the sudden burst of pain to write some more Astatos.
It would do me good.
It should.
I can't write Elaine. She's not mine anymore. She is not in my control.

My Immortal
It's funny how some people find it disturbing or uncomfortable when I suddenly burst out singing. I'm not to good at it I must admit, but still. Waiting for Cristal to arrive I sang most of the Evanescence songs I like. Some of the little girls from the basic jazz giggled about it I think. The flamenco couple stared at me politely confounded. It was fun. I'm getting better at flamenco and I'm feeling oddly pleased about it. Got the jazz CDs along with the sevillanas and now I have to burn them for Wednesday. Glad Patricia might be breaking up with her boyfriend. I know I shouldn't be as I won't even have a chance thanks to my going to Santa Cruz. But oh well.
Well, I had one hour of painting lesson to get to jazz on time. The lesson started later because the teacher had to go to an exam during the normal time. We did hands today, and it turned out to be quite simple. I just need practice, but the method is easy. And I got to read some of the Fifth Book. Rowling Sue is not so bad I think.
Will be writing some Saeleno for Millie now. Have to sleep early as am going out with friends tomorrow.