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.