Tuesday, October 28, 2003

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.

Thursday, October 23, 2003

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.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

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

Monday, October 20, 2003

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.