I'm listening to an album I got in New York almost two years ago. The first time I heard it, I was on long train ride from our hotel to The Cloisters. I remember the dark tunnels and the sudden winter city appearing in different flashes. Almost impossible to forget the brilliance of that morning in a world that was so much sharper because of the pain in it. Like staying up till morning because you are reading something so precious to you. Like hearing the gentle patter of rain and thinking, "this is it; I'm going to die now".

There were things to say then. The world meant something greater than it seems to mean now. I am happier now, that much more content, but I am aimless. I am floating through the void, distracted by everything; the barking of my dog outside, the music, the harsh electric light.

It's been months since I cried like this. But I don't feel alive anymore than I did a few minutes ago... I just feel empty, devoid of anything of interest, anything with meaning. I need to talk, I don't want to talk. I feel shattered.

I didn't remember what it was like to feel this desperate. This needful of human understandment.

Kuja

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10:15 on a Friday Night

After I've been reading on the screen for a long time my eyes begin to sting and that is when I know I should climb in bed and shut down for the day. Sometimes this happens early, sometimes it happens late.

All in all this has been a sluggish week, after the huge holiday for last week things are still to gather their normal pace. Homework has been a bore (mind you a non-existant one that causes me no amount of guilt), school is moving awkwardly, but mostly things are going as cheerfully dull as they do nowadays. I am happy that way.

Lorena is going to Peru next week and I, along with the Drama group, am going to the Festival Cervantino for a couple of days if all goes well.

Considering how disgustingly irresponsible I have proven to be this week, I had better get moving or I might die of guilt before getting one step into Guanajuato.

I suppose that was what was bugging me yesterday after having woken up after six hours of sleep. I hadn't done anything, had all sorts of small pesky homeworks to complete, had a project and a Statistics guide and I felt like doing nothing.

No wait in fact, I don't feel like doing nothing. I feel like working on my own stuff but prioritizing has taken its toll on my sense of responsability.

I got home at about 10 pm tonight after spending the afternoon with my friends and watching the movie Resident Evil: Apocalypse. On the way home the rain turned into a flood and by the time the bus dropped me off where I usually take my taxi the thing had developed into a disaster of biblical proportions. The streets were overflowing with rain, it seemed like someone was throwing buckets of water over our collective heads and I was wearing jeans and a wool sweater. After waiting on the curb for a taxi for some fifteen minutes I was feeling more like a drowned rat than anything that vaguely resembed a human.

I decided the wisest course of action was to head for the McDonald's until the Lord felt like humoring me.

Getting soaking wet is a strange thing, a strange liberating thing. There is a moment in which you simply stop worrying about the clothing, your health or the fact that you just stuck your foot into half a metre of water. I guess it's all part of the process that makes raining my favorite climate. Looking into the streets and the blurred lights between the wet locks of my hair. It gets personal there. I could say the same thing about buses, about bridges. It's something between loneliness and the universal.

I left my bagpack in Alan's car, fortunately my Statistics homework is at home. God I know not how I will get the will that this work requires. I should also start with the whole Math and Physics studying but it ends up being such a bore.

I just don't know.

I was thinking about Dante on the way home. I was thinking of the many drawings I wish I could get done, about guns and about a certain scene that occured to me. I am wondering how to fit it into Messiah and into all the work I am trying to get done.

I left my Phantom of the Opera inside my bag, inside Alan's car. I suppose it'll help me concentrate on Psychology and Philosohpy for the weekend.

Plato's Banquet was gorgeous. God if there is anything I can say about my life lately is the beautiful things I have been reading. "Ensayo sobre la Ceguera", "Phantom of the Opera", "Plato's Banquet" and just about everything else, including the psychology articles.

Getting late, getting heavy, getting harder to breathe. Remember to do this and that, remember to... I don't, not really.

Thank God this entry is over.

I am thinking. I repeat it to myself, over and over again, everyday, because it's importance never ceases to amaze me. Each day that you live is worth recording, each day has a fragment of truth, of the whole that is life, of the whole that is human history.

So I'll try to start, because I half-woke up today in this half existance that is my family's hometown. Because nothing ever seems to happen here that carries the urgency of real life, it moves slowly, like a dream, very like the motions of the living but not quite. And so it is here that the gaze turns inward and that I hear every memory, every tidbit of information about the people who gave me life.

One of my mother's old friends called today, it has been fifteen years since my mother saw her last, at her daughter's birthday party. A daughter that might be my age today. My mother went to Europe for the first time with this woman. She is most likely talking to her as I write.

There is something important there, in every word spoken here, that I relegate to memory with every trip. I have been reading "Ensayo sobre la ceguera" by José Saramago, Nobel Prize winner. And maybe it is these awkward mental notes that might eventually make a novel worth the chance.

I am roleplaying over messenger and I seem to have lost the thread of this entry... I'll try tomorrow. It's getting late.

Raining

It has been long enough since I last wrote here. Much of this time I have spent stressfully gathering the remains of my life in Santa Cruz and transferring them back to Mexico.

I am at an internet cafe, with little to do, in my family's hometown. I wait for the rain to cease.

There is a wonderful symmetry about it, how the calm can return and I can write again, because it was long ago (or maybe not so) that I thought, only pain can bring the artist in me, only sorrow can make the world worth it. But life is back where it should , even though the last months have been quite stressful and relating all that DID happen would be too much.

I've started school again, with a very good chance of actually pulling through despite all the revalidation issues.

I've started realizing that the normality in life that had been so precious to me in Santa Cruz can be kept, can remain. That I can still love school and my mother and try and be responsible. That I can do... maybe whatever I want to do.

Except writing. I've been drawing so much lately that it's frustrating, because I know and the world knows that in reality my true talent lies in the written word. An other thing I have been doing a lot of lately is reading, which might do something to explain why I can't seem to get any thoughts out. For know it's a process of getting thoughts in.

I like working and I like being here, this town is... well perfect for deep thought, perfect for working. Nothing to interrupt the steady flow of the greater conciousness. Nothing to disturb me. and I do thank my mother for bringing me, even though she thinks I don't.

I'll try to keep writing of whatever catches my fancy here, because there are little things of the past months I still have to tell, whenever they come to me. Just knwo I remember I went to see The Cure in concert, and I had the urge to write how important that was for me, how ery very important music is to me and what it means and what it is.

It'll have to wait, it's getting late and cold, and it looks like the rain.

Till later.

ART

n. The human effort to imitate, supplement, alter, or counteract the work of nature.

Nothing more than the ordinary

I've had this window opened and ready almost two hours now and the words simply refuse to form. Maybe becuase I am still slightly afraid, becuase I am still gathering and forming and holding this resolve to me. Perhaps because there are so many things to say today, so many things and so different that I know not what to say first.

Something worth writing happens every single day of your life, something extraordinary, spectacular and beautiful. Something... worth writing.

Life has been blissfully calm these last few months and I have struggled to find the meaning in that calm, to find it's own particular light. Now I have something, something that is painful and harsh and ugly to write about.

I have a girlfriend. Her name is Marissa. Do I love her? Not particularily. I like her very much, I enjoy laughing and spending time with her. But what made me say "yes" this Fiday to the "Are you dating?" questions was a far more selfish reason. I wanted to know. I wanted to experiment. I've been considering bisexuality for a long time now, some two years I think. I've never actually had a girlfriend, never kissed a woman and never particularily desired any of my close friends.

This is harshly enough, an experiment, one that I was happy to make. With that feeling of accomplishment and hope I told my mother.

It didn't come out as a surprise to her, my doubts hadn't been a secret and she had never even given me a clue of what this would do to her.

She was griefed, she was in pain, she told me I had shattered her heart. It did not happen at the same time but through the night she made it perfectly clear.

My mother isn't a prejudiced person. She has gay and bisexual friends and loves and respects them. My mother is a rational womand and I always thought a strong one. Whenever someone was wrong in this house it was almost exclusively me. I was the wild one, the irrational one. I was the young thing that had much to learn about the world and herself.

In years this is the first time that my mother has been dead wrong, has been unjust and horrible, has been weak and disappointed me. And at the same time it wasn't. I love her, and though it hurts me that maybe this will mark a time in which I will be the strong one, I know, that I want to do it. I knwo that I will do it and I know that this IS growing up. This will make me into a better person.

And though my mother has told me it is a tragedy for her and that she is tired of bearing the burden, and though the social stigma can and will be painful I can loose no respect or love or awe of her. She is human and a wonderful human.

I wanted to write my pain here, my resentment and all those little things I wanted to scream to her last night. "I hate you" "I needed your support tonight and you betrayed me" "You have hurt me more than anyone ever could" "I HATE YOU". I wanted to write how horrible it was to sleep by her side because she had demanded that I do so, that she demanded me to hear her complaints and her pain, that she kept whispering that I HAD to stay awake becuase she might die because of the sleeping pills. The terror, the pain, the impossibility of a second alone with myself to simply cry for MY pain.

I have written them. But they are not as important as all the rest.

My mother is a soft spoken woman. And I am thinking, of all the possible scenarios witha mexican mother this was a beautiful one in all its purity. In all its honesty. Because I won't stop trusting my mother and I won't hate her. She is a soft spoken beautiful human being. She has raised me and loved me and I will be with her.

It is not my fault I must repeat to myself in this next days. It is not my fault I told her last night. Because I have never and will never fear the social barriers and the prejudice. They don't frighten me. My friends know and love me, my friends understand and know of this from long ago. I am not afraid.

She is and this pain is for once HER problem. For once I will have a breath of peace and knwo that I have done all I could.

In the beginning

My father woke me up today, he was on the phone.

All day the wind has been a constant presence, it sways the great tree behind our house and makes the wind bells ring, eerily prophetic. There is a sort of haziness now, to the gardens, both front and back, a certain golden halo of sunlight that encompasses the bushes and grass and wood of the deck. I went to look at the flowers because I'm thinking of the midnight garden I want to make. I wanted roses but ours are not as particularily glorious as the other ones I'd found around the neighborhood. I was looking for that brilliant coral red in small buttons, but I found more. Violets and blues and deep crimsons in strange and beautiful shapes.

It seems I have entered a creative rampage. I grabbed the old sketches and colored them and got rid of the ones I don't really want. I'm looking through the two magazines I own, looking for something, anything that might catch my attention. I don't feel much like writting now and therefore I come here to force the writting out. To recount the deeds of the day.

I'm still in my pijamas and it's 7 pm, I have been awake since 12. I am listening to HIM and I am thinking of doing a pairing portrait, unsure of how to proceed with the man's face.

I look out the window, a crack between the white linen of the curtains, the gold has exploded into an irradescent glow this afternoon and I feel much too lazy to get up and take a bath which I should do. I don't feel too keen on staying home today, maybe I feel like calling someone. I feel strangely detatched.

My paints and sketches and other things are strewn all over the floor as the room darkens. There is a point in the day when you cease to notice the passage of time, you are suspended and every minute is very much like the next. You seem a picture frozen it time. It only happens in weekends, because the afternoon moves breathetakingly fast.

I stop the music, the world suddenly echoing of singing birds, the light is coming from the west. If I go to the kitchen door it will open into a strange vast view of the world, eternal and beautiful like the Great Garden. It's strange to think that it once was like that, that it was the cities and not the gardens that were contained.

I've been thinking of God as always. For someone who claims not to believe in the Big One I spent entirely too much time thinking about him. I was thinking about him in a strange Jungian line of thought. I was thinking of how each of us is a world contain, how it is the individual view the only one we can see and therefore it is the only truth. Are we God's Truth then? We are his world, made in his image so therefore he must have an internal Truth, unlike the world around him. Are we that then, a reflection, a flash of intuition, an imagined world in the flicker of some ancient's eyes?

There, I have gone full circle, I wasn't thinking of echoing the Revelations of the Dark Mother but I did.

I feel like showering now, wrapping this last up and getting ready maybe for dinner or a movie or something. Boredom. I should work on things pending.

Tomorrow we go see the whales maybe.

The Hours

Virginia Woolf is something that passed from my mother to me, a woman that frightens her and inspires me. The kind of writer I want to be. Becuase she built new beautiful things, becuase in so many ironic ways she is a writer of light who spent some great parts of her life in shadows. It's amateurish this reflection, it's simple, but it comes from a detail I remember from the biography I read of this woman. That when she and her sister Vanessa Bell left the parental home they made a house flooded in light.

Light is there for me, now that I do not find darkness. Light floods my life as I stand today of all days in the deck of my backyard. The world is golden with sunlight. I draw, I make I gather beauty from the world around me, from Kyle who sits besides me in Psychology and shares my distaste of disrespectulfness. From that class and history in which I soak in the ages past and the Civil Rights Movement and the Middle East of today. I learn I see I am alive.

What defines me? Writing, yes but something else and it si my capacity for the analysis and the individual thought, becuase I take things within me. i take the world within me. I called myself an impressionist once, someone who captures the light in the leaves of how I see them. That is what I do with my writing, what I shall always do, even when as now I do not need the escape so much that I would die without it.

Watching a movie reminds of the old days, nostalgic and melancholic yes but not nearly as distressing as fear and anticipation. I relish this remembrance. It makes me, it defines me into a person, it tells the story of who I am.

I've been there done that gotten through. I know what it's like to hide in a bathroom so that no one will hear you cry and more than brutality this is the greatest pain, more than any other it is to close your eyes and conform your pain and your anguish to the wishes of others.

But I also know, know now and here, what it is to close your eyes to a brilliant sun, what it is to take in the pungency of flowers everyday, every second of your life. I know what it is to look out the giant windows of the art studio and stare, stare at the canopy of trees in the distance and think, how beautiful, how right everything is. You walk through the streets and stop becuase the grass is a brilliant green and becuase there are roses, gorgeous luscious roses everywhere. And it is the midnight garden and the desire again to make and celebrate this life.

I told my mother, I want the good and the bad, I want strenous gushing streams of it. I want the dark in my life to see the light better. I want this moment, to embrace this moment, to take in all I did, all I talked about. I want to enjoy everything and everyone and I want to make beauty of this happiness.

God, it seems we have come full circle and I can see the pain and that strange dark hole overpowering the people I love, this is for me as much as it is for you. There is always a light at the end of the tunnel, there is always life, there is a moment when everything will make sense even though the moment fades.

There is always a way out.

Fields of Innocence

I stand in the wind, with a wish to remember all that I have lost. There was a moment when smiles were real, there had been a time when I knew love and it knew me in return. I close me eyes to the sunlight I feel the gray descending, like a great bird it tears through the sky and flaps its monstrous wings to erase all that had come before. When? When had I been happy and had dreams? Why am I so afraid to return to that which I know as familiar? Where have all the illusions gone? When did I grow up?

More importantly, where do I go now? Where do my tired feet head if I feel so old even now? I have been through flame and come out into the rain, blessed rain.

Everyone seems to be going somewhere but me. They are all approaching their great destinies. Everyone has a dream… everyone has something to do. Why does God not give me a purpose? Why is the world rushing ahead? I am suspended in this dream of brilliant colors where nothing can ever possibly go wrong. What will become of me when I step back into the stream?

Do you still love me? I touch my face and feel it’s tension. Do you still love me? Lorena, Adrian, Andrea… What have I become? Where am I? Will you still love me when I am back? How do I find the place I left? Will I hate when I am back? Will I be miserable in school and at home? Will I be in pain as I was? Will I hate you as I did sometimes? Or will the half-hearted absence make us drift? How do I find my old life…

I haven’t started and I feel as if all is done already. Nothing is new, nothing is special. Where is my passion, where is the will to go on and the focus for the mind? When did the truth leave my tongue? It seems there are no more tales tonight, there are no more leaves to fall, there is only the wind and it tears at my flesh. Why go on? When all the great plans are futile lies why go on? I am not in pain I am happy… but it’s empty, everything is empty.

I only write here when the feeling is indefinite, when something that has been nagging within me is reaching out for the open, I only write here when I am giddy with words as I am giddy with music now.

Something bothers me, and it's the inminent threat of return to Mexico. What will I do there, when it is here that I have learned to be at peace? What will I do back in my cage with my father and the implications of friendships and chats long overdue? What will I do there with myself? How do I live... how do I talk and see and feel? How do I return to the place I called home?

Almost three years ago th epain in my life was so great and so omnipresent that I wanted simply to disappear. Not to die but to not be me at the time. I wanted to run from everything and everyone run as fast as my feet could carry me into some other place, some other world that would have the purity of solitude. I said to myself, take me away God, send me far far away from this place that causes me so much pain.

I dreamt of France and Greece, places I could live alone with no one to know what had been of me before. No one to question the shame or the doubt or the person I had been. I dreamt of the chance to start anew.

Santa Cruz has been that, at a time when I was ready to embrace it. It has been a wonderful beautiful exhalerating new chance to discover life and the beauty of the human spirit, of all that is me and all that surrounds me. It has been not a journey perhaps but more of a quiet moment under some great swaying tree, somewhere I can sit and rest from life.

I'm going to try and draw now. My mom is away in Santa Barbara at a congress and I am alone at home... it shows. I went out today becuase staying alone at hoem would have simply been too much. I went out with Gin and met Maya at the cinema. I bought art stuff I hope I can use now, I bought myself a new bag and I was happy and had fun.

How much more of this? How many more afternoons like this one or the other ones at Daniel's house? How much more can I take of this creeping fear that when I go back misery will return to my arms?

I don't feel like crying, it's just a cringing disatisfaction, just a feeling of anticipation and things I cannot quite control. I am struck in a strange place a strange crossroads... what do i do with myself now?

How do I live?

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Neighborhood

Today I, unable to catch Virginia on the way out of schoo I resigned myself to walk home. Not an hour ago I was stopped by one of our neighbors who was watering his garden. I had often before stopped by his garden to pet his cat.

We talked for some time, mostly he did, I stood in the cold spring sunlight listening in awe. He had lived in Sata Cruz since he was born. He was 58. He could remember our street when a large part of it was still pasture. His house and mine and some three others had been built by the same architect. He spoke Japanese fluently and a few words of Spanish. There were other languages but I did not catch them. He had been a professor at the UCSC and married to a Japanese-American linguist who my mother probably knows.

It was a pleasure talking to him.

I also found a girl from my Art Class on the bus from school. We talked a bit about the surrealist proyect.

Virginia said I was popular because I knew so many people.

And it struck me with a sudden force that I did. That my life had changed so mucho and that I have had not a single all consuming passion for a long time. i have had not ONE single type of friend but many. I have Gin and Marissa and Justin and I have Maya P and Maya B and Adam and I talk to all the people in my classes and I am not... alone.

What will I do when I get back to Mexico? I want to! I need to... but I don't want to loose this. I don't want to focus all attention on one group. I want the friends I treasure, those who understand me the most and no who I am but I also want people with whom I can simply chat idly and have a drink or to. I want to be on good terms with those around me and be able to not find any particularily disgusting fault in them. I want this... but I want my other life too.


Gin's English teacher asked us a favour. A friend of hers will interview us for her Psychology College Class Study, because she wanted an interview of two friends from different upbringings. Gin and me couldn't have been more different...

Somehow this fills me with joy.

And I'm going to set up a World of Darkness chronicle for Marissa and Justin and Colin and Daniel and ...

I have no words.

Not sure what I am...

I jsut remembered something. Something I read once. That if you do not give from the heart you draw nothing from the heart of others. I suppose that marks the dissatisfaction with my writing of late. That I haven't committed as I did before with works like Faust and Nora's Letter. I have poured small doses of my soul into the things I am doing, not the whole overwhelming stream as happened with Elaine.

But I don't know, even with cool calm technique I manage to please myself if subtly. I was rereading the chapters of Ghenna Opened and they are not as bad as I remember.

One would think that so much free time this last week would have given me but a second to spare here. I should have come earlier and not left it for the last rushed days of holiday, where we seek, desperately rest and relaxation. I've been sleeping and not-worrying and I suppose that rests me more than anything else could.

We start school again on Monday and though I think wistfully of all the free time to write and create I have been bored enough to welcome it cheerfully.

I am tired now and thinking of the time wasted that I should be using for writing. Tomorrow I go back to homework and the brief snatches of moments for my personal things.

Just to prove what everyone has known all along...


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A journey I just don't have a map for

There was a point in my life when nothing was worth my time anymore. It sounds familiar yes? Even cliched? It sounds so like the children we are that it makes others smile in derision?
You do not know, you cannot remember what it was. I do, all too clearly. I remember so much that I can see the telltale signs in those I love. I can feel them sinking slowly in self-pity and anguish and it's real. We don't invent that. It happens.

How can I tell you, how can I possibly describe to you what it feels like to be crawling with shards of yourself dislodging your belly? How can I tell you what it is to know that there is no light and no end of the tunnel? That is the worst. The point when you lay on the floor of your room not asking for anything, not wanting anything, just thinking, letting the tears pour down and thinking... if I do this will they care? Will any of them truly care?

The inevitable answer: I don't know. By God I wish the answer was NO because that would be so much easier to deal with.

Crash And Burn

For my friends and family, for those who have stood behind before or besides me in hard times and in happiness. Thank you. Thank you Mom, Andrea, Adrian, Joel and Lorena. Thank you Millie. Thank you for breaching your way into my life and soul. Thank you Marina for staying up and talking. Thank you Cesar and Sebas and Alan for making me laugh and being my friends. I wish I could have written this for you but I didn't, and though you may think it stupid and sentimental it's for you.

When you feel all alone
And the world has turned it's back on you
Give me a moment please
To tame your wild wild heart
I know you feel like the walls are closing in on you
It's hard to find reliefe and people can be so cold
When darkness is upon your door
And you feel like you can't take anymore

Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone

When you feel all alone
And a loyal friend is hard to find
You're caught in a one way street
With the monsters in your head
When hopes and dreams are far away
And you feel like you can't face the day

Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone

Colour Blind

My period is killing me. I am in so much pain and have had no desire whatsoever to do homework or anything in the least productive, maybe I'm just lazy. The day seemed to mimic my mood, with it's grey tint and it's stinging cold. Pain makes me feel vulnerable, but perversely, ironically it also makes me feel like a woman. More desirable if I can be fragile, more beautiful if I do something that all woman do, so passionately as I do everything.

Pain is a cleanser. It means something, something important. It means something that is so clear and undebiable that it makes me as afraid as I will ever be. It has always been so, since I was a child I was afraid of dying in pain.

I called my father today and it made everything a lot better. It made things good again to feel like I can take the step myself, that I can stop being a child and give up the fight. We actuallt talked, he told me things and it was good, it was very good. I don't want to stop calling him, becuase it suddenly made me feel liek he wanted me to call or maybe it doesn't matter whether he wants me or not, but that he must have me because whichever way I am still his daughter. He must still love me. Some way.

He does, he is careless and I am certain. A certainty. But he does.

I don't have much to add except that it is getting late and I have finished only one homework assignment. At least I should get the art review over and start the Psychology thing. And get up not so late tomorrow. Mmmm... maybe some coffee, yes.

Prince of Stories

I am very tired, exhausted almost. It's entirely due to lack of sleep and the overwork. But it's worth it, every second of my life is worth it at this point, I love, caress and possess every instant with the crystal clear clarity of no regrets. I don't look for a future but I sit and wait. I do things and somehow regain a control, a decision, a crucial point in which I can say and I will do. I haven't had for long, much too long.

I went to the UCSC library with my mother after school today. Things like this, like yesterday, things that set my mind to thinking of what I will be doing in three years time. I began thinking about my thesis, about how am I going to get into college. Doing research on this Mental Illness program has been much like a thesis I think, because I've chosen such a specific theme.

And I can't write, I have completely lost the thread of my writing. Christ this is so frustrating. I am going to cry and I don't know why. I'm trying to think, to say something meaningful, about me, about what is going on in my life and my dad won't hear, becuase he sends my emails back with a three line response when I'm happy. Because he can't be bothered.

My mother IS bothered, she gives me the time of her day and her ear when I am talking about prejudice against mentally ill such as sociopaths. And she will take me to flamenco and to the nude model classes... and hell she lives with me. She loves me.

Oh father father, why can we not watch the flower trees together? Do you love me father? People are shocked when they hear it, when they hear me shout for you like this. He loves you, they always do, they just don't know how. But I doubt. What can you want of me? What can you think when you receive my mails? What do you want from me? What do I do to make you proud? To make you love? what do I do to make you my father like you were before? What do I do to have your eyes,breath, yous love, and soul and everything that echoes?

Because I am the only daughter you will ever have, but you don't want me.

I was going to try to interpret Mari's dream, but I'll just tell her tomorrow.

I'll call you Dad and I will write to you now. You do not destroy me even if you bring me tears. I am as happy as I was, as willing as always. You do nothing... and it hurts.

Red Sky In the Morning

Just answered a second mail from my dad telling him a lot about what is going on here with me and that I will call him on Friday. He's sending me a birthday present (money obviously).

Homework catching up on me, sneaking behind my shoulders and now I suddenly have time for nothing (not even writing here or answering private mail which I am doing anyway). I should be finishing my art review or doing sketches or just tinkering with the St. Patrick's day things. And into all this I want to squeeze in the nude model sessions on Mondays, courtsey of my beautiful wonderful art teacher.

Not only that but it seems I have to remember more often that it's only me and my mother taking care of this house and that I have to clean my room myself and order it around and fold my clothes. I did all that this week, just now the room. It takes a good mood and work. At least my room is livable now. It'll be easier to work in it. And all of this makes me think of the time when I will be alone and making a home for myself. I know I will be alone at some point becuase I want to try it, somehow I find the solitude alluring, not without firends but living by myself. And Millie says loneliness can kill, I believe, but solitude is different I would like to think.

I am listening to the Amelie soundtrack, an old french song by some lady. It reminds me of dinners at my Grandfather's house. There was a mystery then, something that obssesses me even now. Soemthing that lined my childhood in mahogany and leather. Something that spoke to me of wine glasses and secret passages and the giant portrait of a girl that was of my blood. That I could describe what it was growing up in a house were the echo of your footsteps and the shadow of your reflection could become a ghost in some tragic tale. How to describe the place were there was a fountain to build a world upon, an empty fountain to sit in and have fun and pretend to clean. Don't get me wrong, I loved it but I did not love them as I did the myth and the world they had made. I grew up in a pretend romance, in the small caricature my fmaily held together. I loved it and despised it when it fell apart.

Somehow they built my sense of beauty, they built my sense of intellect, they built what would be my reading career. My mother, she built my life.

I'm done with reading Lord of the Flies. It was good, not a favorite but I find it an incredible work nonetheless. There were some very frightening parts and it was masterfully written, very clear and yet beautiful also. Maybe I'll read more of Golding.

From talking to Marina.

How to describe it for you? When you make things, when you build, you finish eventually. Then you walk away and build something new, or sit in contemplation of what you have done. When you birth a character you and her do the same; there is a point in which you look back, the wind tugging at your hair and clothes, and you behold what you have made. The character will breath, she will give a great sigh and say "It's over now. It is accomplished", perhaps she will go on. We all go on, one way or another, because history slips under us like some great shinning bird. What you have written then shapes intself into a meaning, something that your character has told you. It is her life up til then and the imagining of what a future may hold.

I have made a statement. I have said what war and hate does to a child, but I also say, that there is a chance for recovery. My character has spoken to me, she has taken her breathe and plunged back into the richness of life to find a safeguard for herself.

I come to myself, I find her beautiful.

Wise Child

Calm days. My mother has the car at last and we spent a good weekend enjoying the commodity. I fortunately bought clothes I needed and feel much better about dressing in the morning. It's funny how I felt so cheerful about the shopping, I used to be miserable everytime I had to get new things, especially underwear. It's another sign that I feel better with myself, that things are nicer and somehow working out despite everything. And the bras I had were falling to pieces already becuase I was much too cheap to actually go get some for myself. It's the sort of thing my dad would do, how annoying.

Speaking of which, I answered his mail at long last. I think I will keep writing to him, probably send him my St. Patrick's Day Card along with everyone else. I just don't want to keep acting like I child. I should call him or he will not call me. My birthday is fast approaching and perhaps it might be a good one. I know he'll call me on that day, but I haven't asked him about the money and I don't think he sent any extra for my Birthday.

Oh well.

I've been in an inspirational mood and writing a bit more than I had. Well to begin with I took up with the blog again and that's something, even if I do fill it up with innanities.

We're studying personality disorders for psychology and I took up sociopathy (or Antisocial Personality Disorder) as my pet proyect. As I read on it became disturbingly clear that my character Dante fitted the type. It hurts me that he does because I love him as part of myself, a part that cannot be bothered, that doesn't care, that knows what is wrong, that is disgusted. It's childish of me to want to redeem him now I have made him this monster, becuase I cannot rest with him the way he is as I could not rest were he to remain happy. Nothing fits Dante, nothing contents him or contains him. Is he another empty vessel for his God? I know he knows what I'm thinking.

Dante knows God loves him, becuase from God comes all love and all life and all light. He knows and he cannot accept it, why should God love him?

Usually the first emotion sociopaths began to exhibit during therapy is depression. I said that could eplain why he is so miserable with Lucius. Dante did not find a shrink, he found God. Dante knows there is something deeply wrong with him and it disturbs him. It's part of his character to be disturbed. Because he's lived with himself for so long and it unsettles him that others don't, the world around him cares and regrets.

It fascinates him.

Dante loved Lucius because he was all Dante was not. He was human in so many ways, and man was made in the image of God.

Someday this week I have to run to the UCSC library and get a couple of books for my psychology report. I should be able to begin writing it tomorrow. I started with the art review on Ana Mendieta. I was very young when I saw the exhibition of her work at the Art Appriciation class. I sensed some of the tragedy through the photos and the story the teacher told us. I knew she'd died like that somehow. Fallen through the great window, maybe murdered, maybe suicide.

I think her work spoke of that, in each faceless gesture, in the minutes of shabby film, in the shaky lines of red ink over leaves. Her work spoke of fragility, of mortality, of some terrible horrible secret in the foster homes.

Speaking of art. White Wolf is closing, already declared bankrupcy. Probably Joel has a better detail of everything. I have just let the steam go but I still want to write that I hate this. I hate the fact that the authors and artists and masterminds will disband and that there will be no more World of Darkness. Their books are beautiful, they are more than just a game. They serve as ecellent history books and beautiful artwork collections, they are novels and short stories and plays and verything, just everything.

They gave birth to Knossos...

Well it's too late to keep rambling and I should go to sleep now that I can...

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	Low
Schizoid:	Low
Schizotypal:	High
Antisocial:	Low
Borderline:	Moderate
Histrionic:	High
Narcissistic:	High
Avoidant:	High
Dependent:	High
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Moderate
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

You can be me when I'm gone

It is a good thing to keep one's eyes open all day long... is it? Becuase one's strength laxes and is nothing by the evening an even sitting upright writing this takes herculean effort.

I went to Ginnia's today and laughed and talked and drew and felt more strangely at home than I've ever felt since I got here. We goofed, talked of affinities, we talked of a deep strange rooted problem and what we think of people. We discuss God. It can happen, and I am thankful that we both have the capacity to look and accept for this beautiful thing that our friendship is. I am grateful to have a person with whom I cna paint a wall and discuss a book and tell stories, I am glad to have her here in my arms near me, becuase it makes the silence easier.

We come into this world alone, we leave alone and all love and friendship is a lie we build to escape this awful loneliness.

We are discussing phobias, mental illness in psychology, we are finding meaning. Because the loneliness of Death frightens us so we make meaning, we make goodness. We make Gods.

It's not a new thought obviously. "Beautiful man who made God in his image" It comes along in the introduction for Gaiman's story collection Book of Dreams. I shall love Mrs. Catherine Frankee who was a not so great teacher but an incredible friend for that book. I shall remember always. I shall try.

Millie and Andy and Adrian and Mari and Joel, I love you, because somehow we have made a connection, I said it months ago when I was so frightened I wanted only to crawl in a little hole and shrivel up.

I'm happy now. I can make beauty still. My beauty goes for you, my firends and mother. Whatever it is, whatever I o I do from and for everyone. An most above all for myself.

Here

I'm sitting on my bed, covers haphzardly stowed away and work strewn all around me. I can't even begin to think of tidying up. The moment I start working on something I think up something else I would like to do. Just now the thought of the pending mail I have to send to Choche made me stop. There is the map, there are the art sketches. Tissue for the skull and the St. Patrick's E-Card. Dear god...

Psychology project. Statistics and definition of sociopaths.

I want to find Armand fanart for Mari. Upload the Interview songs on my web so she can get them out. Oh lord...

I am disorganized and easily distracted, just remembering my psychology project on mental illness, just remembering everything...

It's only midnight, it's sad to think 'only' midnight. I should go to sleep but we all know I won't.

I'm getting new clothes on Saturday and I am planning to start a no food diet ha ha. Will it work? I think not, it's just ritual fasting really.

In Demand

I am so tired. I've been strangely sick for the last couple of days and I think it's becuase of those idiotic pills. That was a stupid thing to do. Obviously the mouly bread did nothing to help.

All in all life has continued its natural course with the sligth that I amfinally answering my emails as I should. I aught to be writing my EoW chapter but it seems after three brilliant scenes I haven't had the focus to get back to it. Mainly that is what I have been doing instead of writing in this blog, answering mail and thinking of chapter an homework and the usual suspects.

I finished Brave New World too.

I don't know if I have ever been so fundamentally bothered by any book before. If I've ever been shaken to the core of my intellectual being with anything else. Lolita made emotion boil, this just made my reason hate it. I didn't even find it beautifully written or even particularily well. The authos is an average, but the idea, the whole theme. He lacks the character development to bring it to a fullsome bounty I think. An maybe that is why it is school requirement. Because you are not bothered with characters from the ideas they possess?

Beauty cannot be made of happiness, of contentment. Am I doomed then to make nothing and write nothing until I am in agony again? Art cannot exist without strife.

I feare that. I have always feared that.

I listen to the rising crescendo of Libera Me. I think of the sun setting over the Hagia Sofia. I think of a boy laying soaked and doomed in the streets of Paris. A broken bird. A young girl being kissed to sophocation.

I think, it is time to write on.

O Brave New World

I hate that book I hate it. It has touched too many of the old chords, too many of the old fears

I like the wind

There is a moment when you are walking a lonely highway when everything is cold and gray and you wrap your arms securely beneath you. You look up or at the cars rushing by you. Wind tugs at your hair and you feel beautiful.
Alone in a lonely highway you feel brave and beautiful. Like a soldier in the silent after-battle. You feel like you can spread your arms and cry truths to the world.
I feel like Niblem standing on some hich balcony looking down at the burning city, the burning dream. I will make a new heaven, I will be good, I will be a warrior of truth. I will be hers.

And then there is the delicious chill of fevers, when you are light headed and concious of a body that is yours, a skin that prickles if touched, a shiver that is both heat and touch.

The art teacher reached out for my hair. It's long enough to form heavy ringlets. Is it natural? Yes. I am not sure if I like it.

Feeling intensely is not good for the Utopia. What would I be there? A carcass, a soulless walking carcass. If I feel so empty with no anguish or bliss or great world-changing work I would have died there. Would have known nothing and plunged inside some icy waters.

I am trying to feel this with significance, write something. Maybe I need more sleep.

You Look So Fine
No one online. No other thought but the fact that I would like nothing better than to spend the rest of my life cheerfully doing nothing.
My throat itches inside but the dizziness has gone away through forceful sleep. I could think of nothing but laying down and closing my eyes. I woke up with not even the strength to acknowledge the waking or the day or the fact that I had to go to school. I closed my eyes again and considered simply going back to sleep. It doesn't matter, I said, am doing well. But frankly I have no patience for another detention and had history exam and finish the art proyect and a whole other considerations which would have made me feel guilty for not showing up to school.
There is nothing I want more than to be with Ginnia, or talk to Millie or huddle in my sofa and read.
I don't want to draw or write or do anything remotely productive. I am not exhausted anymore but I have to sleep or will wake up extremely late tomorrow. And tomorrow should be spent in, well.... work.
Reading 'Brave New World' don't like science fiction much, can't relate to it. Except when it's something like Lain or Captain Harlock. That it says something more than just... we are all going to Hell. I like 'The Machine'.
I have absolutely nothing interesting to say. I still feel sick and tired but not enough to go to sleep and I needed to come here and write to feel like I'm going somewhere.
It's time I started working on EoW again.

I'm with stupid

Oh dear God, I am so tired I cannot believe it. I think I have half a cold already and I need to just lay down and sleep. It wasn't the best day of my life, but apart from that it was pretty average. I lost my bag in the bus which was bloody stupid and I have been sniffing all through the afternoon. I sat in the cold waiting for news of my bag for like half an hour before I called it quits and decided to just go home and get some rest.
I have a craving for wine just because I ate a baguette without any. Now I munch an apple and I want white wine.
I think I have never wrote about that house in Mexico City that I wish to live in. It's in Altavista avenue (ha, the irony!) and looks like a rundown cross between a castle and a mansion, but too small to be either. It's surrounded by the sort of monstrously large trees that create shadow instead of darkness and the garden is earth and leaf. It reminds me of Aura.
I'm done with Time of the Twins which now seems like a tremendous waste of effort and time. It disgusts me. Now I have decided to go for another book by the name of Brave New World that is obligatory reading for English classes here. We shall see, as they say.
There is nothing tremendously exciting but I don't want to get out of the habit and my head is throbbing, I think I'll sleep.
Bird for art is becoming gorgeous drawing. Need to make tattoo with Messiah icon.

The Passion

I don't think I've ever cried quite so much in a movie... not merely cried but actually wailed and shrieked in anguish. Maybe it's becuase of the exquisite physical pain, the ugliness of it, the disgust and reality. Maybe it was just Jesus. I am not a religious person. I do not believe in a God above or below or in the middle. If anything I believe in myself, my family, my friends. I don't 'lack' any spiritual fulfilment. I don't care, whether there is a God or there isn't.

I seldom thinks He believes in me. We have come to a truce I think.

But I love his son, becuase I know his son was real, I know what he did. He loved his fellow man. He changed the world, for good or for worse.

And we have learnt nothing from the example of a man who, whether divine or simply wise, loved enough to die for it. All over the world people still die in agony, men and women still laugh and point at executions. Suffering and humiliation is still in place. Maybe we cannot rid the world of suffering, but we can learn to feel for it, and maybe, just maybe things will change.

On another note, The Passion, tis said, is 'antisemitic' and I have decided to embark upon a quest to find if that is true. I'll poke my face at the library tomorrow and find the Times article Sebas was talking about. After all, I AM supposed to make an effort to be informed.

I am thinking of Ma-ri-ha, of Niblem, of the falling of the Akkadians. How little has the the West seen Noah, a mere two milleniums. There were ages and eons before us. Do we dare say we have the answers? A child is doomed to repeat it's parent's mistakes. We humans do not change, not to the core, we adapt and we go on. We live in the last minute of the last our of our Mother. another year will dawn and we might not be there to see it.

We will sink in the darkness, into the waters that birthed us and we will be food to the new order. Or legend.

Or bones in the sand.




I am so tired I could not believe it if I had insomnia today. I have little worries. It seems I came out with A in all of my recent works. I am doing good, not merely ok but good.

I think worries about the whole revalidation thing are coming back, or at least they should. I don't feel like I've 'wasted' this year, even if I do have to repeat eleventh.

It just takes time to get accostumed to the writing, it just takes practice and I will be like the Great Ones...

The trick is to keep breathing

Time to go to bed. I forgot again to come and write a fuller description of the day. Blossoming love for mother and lifestyle, most probably due to conversation in the Psychology room. Nothing particularily exciting. Nothing terribly devastating or blissful or fascinating.

I sit in class. I do work. I do my homework. And it is astounding how good I feel after I am done. It is astounding how much contentment it gives me. Writing in the blog however makes me want more. Makes me want to reach deeper, makes me want to draw things out of the well. Is it time to just say the things, the beautiful spontaneous things that errupt in the day? That it feels good to be home after school. That Shirley Manson and Aimee Mann's voices course through me like the vibration of underground water. I long to lay my head on the ground and let the sound be.

I like music, so I told Noah. I cannot make it myself, perhaps I am too undisciplined, but I like it. And it helps me write, it helps me think, it helps me plan and dream.

I long to lay my pen and make beauty come out of it. I want to make drawings that will be good but I know I can't, never to my standard. So I turn to my great passion and try to find if I can still write.

I am docked in safer waters. This has been the year of criminology for me, of studying the ugly side of humanity. I went from Columbine to the Death Penalty to Jack the Ripper and back to Death. I had to study cases, think as a psychopath. I had to discover truths. I want to delve deeper there and to exctract my truth. Because when I think of violence I think of Astatos and inevitably Dante's cold empty eyes come out.

And it all falls down to this fascination with God, because God is humanity, because I cannot believe anything else. I don't feel the presence or love or gaze of something greater, grander, higher. But I feel love for my fellow man. I feel fascination by everything, by pain and by life.

And I have gone through this many times. Trying to find my meaning. I am done with the history homework for the week so maybe I will have time to devout work to Messiah or just to clean my room up. I'm sleeping in the couch becuase my sheets are not ready and I am going to see the Passion tomorrow.

Goodnight.

Just a passing thought

I don't know how to begin. Incredible as it may sound I find myself living in one of the happiest moments of my life. I am tranquil, serene, I have small nagging worries. There is no torrent of bliss and no torrent of anguish, there is no torrent of blind beautiful inspiration, but there is a small constant trickle of contentment.

Looking back I don't know where it began, maybe Santa Cruz or maybe just recently. Sure I am dead worried about school, sure I have not written in a long time... but it's allright. For the first time since I don't remember when, I can say, it's all going to be just fine.

Some five years after I won the war... muahahahaha

My sweet lord it has been two months nearly since I dare put in an appearance here! I should be feeling extremely ashamed of myself. It's been a busy month and busy year and I can come up with thousands of excuses but honestly the whole point of this blog is keeping a record of my life whether it is haphzard and rushed or paused and insightful.

I haven't been doing a very good job of that lately.

Mostly I have been doing homework, school, work. Which has resulted in a huge creative coma and which has me, if not strained at least minimally worried. I'm done with my first semester and not very happy with my performance. Obviously Trig was a lost cause but I had hoped to get something decent out of biology. My god I even stayed after class to clean the aquariums and get some extra credit.

All in all this ended up with me promising myself to actually DO something in this semestre. It is going to be a lot easier than I thought. To begin with my classes are actually enjoyable. Microsoft Office, Physcology, World History and Art. I am happy with them and they have proven to be lots of fun. Psychology is the most challanging one.

Just this weekend were the last projects and homeworks for our progress reports. I'm getting them on Monday and I hope I do get something good. I'd feel horrid otherwise.

Oh dear, I haven't even had time to take care of the two RPGs (actually one) in which I still play. I miss writing, I haven't written anything since getting here from Mexico. It might be depressing but I've been working so much that I can hardly feel unproductive. If anything I really regret not taking the time to write in my blog, and it's not that I haven't had time, not with my new comupter. I've had enough little pockets of time to dare a quick write, but mostly I've been spending them chatting on msn and AIM.

As a result, the whole Gaiman, Raistlin and Jack the Ripper periods of these months are missing from my blog, which isn't accurate at all if you ask me. I found out my mom and I share the same obssession over serial killers, I met Ginnia's friend Audra, I have been appointed organizer of the Santa Cruz High School Writer's Workshop (oh dear god) and I have come to a decision to do something for my poor college resume which is so pathetic were I the administration I'd laugh at myself.

AS always I am filling myself with resolutions and promises and I know half of them I can manage and the other half will hopefully be remembered by the screen of someone who takes the time to read this very very boring blog.

A few hours to go
I don't want to go back. I am scared. i dont want to go back.

10/01/2004
I've had trouble sleeping these last days. Not from lack of trying or the computer or any new books. i have too much in my mind, too much that is not going the way it should. My homework, the electricity-receipt, dad, school, going back to Santa Cruz. Responsabilites, things that keep praying upon me when I close my eyes.
I'm tired of things I should be doing, of the aimlessness, the lack of purpose. I'm tired of waiting for the time and energy to work. I'm tired of leaving things half done, of starting and never finishing. I am tired of getting nowhere and of reminding myself I should be doing this or that.
Everything bores me but writing. Everything. Maybe I should get rid of my chat programme or my other stuff. Maybe I should forget and start working on school stuff.
I feel this horrible anguish about going to Santa Cruz. I feel like crying or something.
I'd rather be here though, than with my dad. I'd rather be here than with my grandma. It makes me feel horrid, it troubles my concience, but I keep feeling how soon I must leave, all that is left undone, all that I still must face.
I'm afraid of loosing the year, of having done everyhting sloppily (which I did). I am very afraid.

From Andy's
Writing directly from Adny's computer, half-asleep, feeling tired and very worried about homework. Everyone's at school, making me feel extremely slothful. At least we woke up relatively early which is good. I am feeling as if I should be back home WORKING on something. I also didn't pay the electrical receipt which I should have. But I went out.
Going out is good, very good.
And I give up. I can't write.

Panic Attack
Suddenly, strangely and horridly don't want to go back to Santa Cruz. It's the apporaching date of departure and the remainder of school stuff I have still not finished. Feeling slothful and aimless again, which is never a good sign. It's obviously got to do with yesterday since last night had the exact same doubtful proding thoughts.
Times like these are when my mind goes wandering to Knossos again and when shall I actually start working on it. I have always prided myself in teh fact that I rise above the trivial and common, that somethings are not important to me because I have others. Well I have nothing at the moment and it's a chilling thought.
Joel was a nice virtual backbone which had to be removed for the sake of my sanity and his, but it hurt more than I thought it would.
I have the need to do things. I know I should be sleeping because I want to go out tomorrow and do things. I have to pay the electricity tomorrow and I suppose I should take advantage and go around Coyoacan looking for presents or just getting out. I need to get out and do something or I'll drive myself insane long before seven in the afternoon. Should probably call Andy and arrange something, anything.
I hate feeling this way but it is bound to pass. Soon, I just need to be patient.

Here
Calmer. Scared but happier. Glad I did what I did. Went out, got everything out of my system and am in a good mood in general. At least a lot better than this morning.
I went to the movies with friends and even though I did not watch Return of the King I had a good time. I met Sirio which is quite wonderful.
I don't know what more to say. I'm not giving up this fight which I won't make any clearer lest I hurt. I won't give up. Not this time.
Thank you Mei darling for going out with me on Saturday. I had the grandest time ever and will love you forever.

I want to say I'm sorry. I want to be a coward. I want it to be over.

There isn't going to be another chance you hear me? Get it into your head before I have to drag you with me. You fucked this one up, and the worst is knowing that you had to. Grow up and finding something else. Grow up and leave with it.
Grow up because he's still your friend and you still love him. Grow fucking up.

Just like Heaven

Hey hey fuck the world and all it has. Am I not the most selfish girl in th planet? am I not the rodent of fucking foolishness? Hey hey am I not the queen of all that makes pain? I'm fucked up. Too fucked up to even think about it. Jesus Christ.
I'm so fucking happy for you Joel. I honestly fucking am. And it's been so long since I had your love for free it was bound to hurt like this, nothing to what it hurt for you. It's good, it's like talking an poisoned arrow out, it's like starting again.
And I lost what I had which I didn't have in the first place. And I am what I am, what I have always been.
I hate myself today.
For needing it. For needing the slving, but fuck everything it's all going to be better now.
That I needed MILLIE to tell me for it to become real, for it to become a need for it to be what was needed to do.

FUUUUUUUUCK!

I'm not even making sense to myself. I just want to say it. I want to be done with the pain. It didn't fucking hurt this way when D left. It didn't. Damn mysel. DAMN.

What am I? What am I that this is the only honest love I can get? Am I so horrid, so selfish, so fucking messed uo that I needed him tied to me. Well cut the chords and storm the gates. Let me fall and die and bleed. I won't do this. I don't want to be this monster.
It wasn't real, not through the net. There was nothing in it to become real. There was never a chance for us meeting each other, even though I'm well goddamn keeping trying to get those fucking tickets. Now more than ever.

I'm so fucking glad for you Joel. I am. You need your freedom more than I ever knew a person needed it.
It's going to hurt like hell when you get a girlfriend. It's going to hurt like all hell when I read that you love her. It's going to be madness.
But it HAS to be this way. I did it to you. There is no forgiveness in the world for all the things I have done.
Fuck everything. I am damned.

28/12/2003
He said you don't love Joel.
He should have said I don't love him enough. Like Nath, like all those who have ever loved me. What do I need of someone? To be turned away? Why does adoration make me into such a selfish pig?
I am a thing of struggle.
I am not obssessed with Joel? Is that what I'm lacking to call it love?
He is my friend and I love him. Should I hide behind my truths, that I've told him since D that I cannot love him like he loves me? I could pretend I love, I could make believe, I could build a romance to shelter us from the cold eyes of reality.
I could feel my need with him.
But I don't want to lie to Joel, I don't have the stamina to keep up the lie. He doesn't deserve such a lie.
What frightens me most, what makes me push and try the relation again and again, is the thought that he is pretending. That he doesn't know, that he wants it so much, that he is framing me, making me into a dream reality could never match.
Do I justify? Explain? That is why I'm horrid sometimes, if he loves me let him love me truly, let him see all I am, everything. The good, the bad, the worst.
I want to be loved for my flaws and my virtues. I want to be loved for who I am. I want to be known.
Joel are you reading this? I want to love you for who you are, I want to know you. You are my friend, faithful and true, you are this beautiful thing full of secret goodness. You overfill the world, you are blind in your trust and affection to others. How can I not love you my friend? How can I not kiss your blind eyes and want to crush you so that you may know me? That is the truth, you frighten me. I don't know what to do with all this goodness you pile upon my arms. I am lost and trembling and lashing back because it all seems so frightening.
And you are so far away. What will i do when we meet? What does the future hold?
Do I play with you? Do I hurt you? Am I so shamelessly loving one day and distant the other? I'm sorry.
Ih the meantime, find a girl to kiss back home. Touch her for me and brush your lips to her forehead. Treat her well and enjoy her company. Don't be alone, my heart aches if you are alone. Find someone to love you. Don't be alone.
Sometimes I feel like we don't understand each other. Do I send you the books in an attempt to bridge the distance? There is not a moment in the conversation when I can cry "yes, that is exactly how I feel, come into my arms my brother". That is what happened with Andy and me, with Millie and me.
I don't think it was there with D. He made me happy with his easy way, with his careless touches and his arms that shivered with me inside.
I liked him.
Did I love him?
No, I don't think I did.

27/12/2003
It is easy to write nonsense.

I have a great desire for my Laura Ingalls books, to think of honest work in wild places.
I am tired of waiting and I want to sleep. I want tomorrow to arrive already. I want to wake up early and be productive.
My cold is better and I don't cough quite so much. I hope it's over by tomorrow.
I want new underwear and new shoes, a soft black turtleneck for the cold and my red sweater. I want to get a haircut and my face cleaning treatment and a full waxing. I want to loose weight.
I wish I could be pretty and interesting for Joel. It'd make me feel I deserve his admiration.
Half-heartedly, I wish.
I'm thinking of Lillian with a pearly-blue cloak, furlined. There is an owl-shaped clasping it to her throat. 'To remind her she is a lady worthy of respect'.

26/12/2003
It is selfish to think, there was never another like her, there will never be. It is selfish to hide at any mention of her name. It is selfish to hope that we will all carry the echo of her voice forever, to be glad that my nephew remembers she is among the stars. It is selfish to expect mourning.

The cold has me in an awful mood. I am tired of medicines and remedies and precautions. I've earned it but I'm tired of people acting as though I don't know I'm sick. I desperately need to make a move to cheerfullness again. I am here only a few more days and I do like being liked and not being complained over.

I dreamt of Desire last night. Desire and Delirium were lovers. There was a castle beneath the great sea and their drugged toys went there for sucrease. It was a great maw that held the mob grinding and gripping each other's bodies. Their eyes were sad, with a vague empty look that made it all terribly sordid. Dead eyes, like Millie says.
I saw one of them dive into the sea, as if it were a great transparent pool. I saw his life. Wasted, in the arms of a loved woman. He wanted to be better, tried, half-heartedly for her, until she grew tired and gave him up.
His eyes were crazed when he stalked her on a lonely road by the sea. He would have raped her and killed her because he needed her so. But she was stronger and threw him into the sea.
So there he dives now, to find the only pleasures that matter, thinking of what he lost.

I dreamt of Rice's vampires and markets of Byzancium. Dreamt of a servant faithful til death and a wicked ploy from the Carpathians. Mostly I dreamt of Armand, mixing my own Marius Johannsen in the act.

25/12/2003
Christmas is baaaaack. I am happy. I am content, I am in the best mood I've ever had here. It's hard to find reasons to be sullen these days. It's hard to find dislike for those around me.
No one finds a use or interest for me. I've estranged myself so much for this family. I have so little to talk of with them. I'm years behind them, I'm not married, I don't want to be, no children, no desire for them, my opinions are inconsequent, not even opposite, just distant. I can't hold my own against the verbal sparring (always without malice) of my elders.
As always I sit quiet and listen. I didn't resent it, the sense of alienation was ever so subtle, unlike the intensity of other times.
Is it because I belong? Because Christmas is right? Because above all else I love this date? Because on the danger of being thought dishonest or trivial or fashion like I shall always remember Christmas as the best of my family: we are thirty-two this year, we have always been together. Since I could remember, since any of my married cousins could remember, it has been this way. The same food, the same ritual, the same cheer and conversation, the same beloved people.
I am filled with love for them all.

Laughter fills me. I want to keep being helpful, I want to be liked, to be talked of with fondness. I want to keep acting this way through the rest of my visit, however short. I want to be good.
I find it's easier now without the inminent threat of CoR hanging over me like a job deadline. It is much easier, much more enjoyable to simply think of the journal as my only self-appointed responsability. Here I please only myself, the minister that judges sits only within, I owe nothing to anyone, I can give myself entirely to family. I can enjoy.

There are some things still hard to speak of, some things I dare not touch. My aunt is dead, my cousin was almost raped.
It's much simpler to hold your tongue.