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.

23/12/2003

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regarding character development

The meaning of the word scream

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

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

My dad insists upon medication.

It brings an ugly vulnerable feeling that he thinks this.

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

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

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

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

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

My say

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

11/02/2003: Wish

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

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

27/10/2003: Love Song

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Joel I love you.

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

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