Monday, September 29, 2003

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.

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

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.

Thursday, September 11, 2003

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...

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

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.

Thursday, September 04, 2003

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.
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.