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.

Variants
She seats upon the heated sidewalk, slowly revealing the form of ehr pointed pencil. Cut here, now, then. She looks to the horizon and the blue blinds her. There is nothing she wants, nothing she longs for. Horizon stretches on forever and ever. She feels lost.
The fire above is white-hot. White she understands, as the greatest extreme of the inner turmoils. She is like that, extremes in the dancing motions of fire. Or so she'd rather think. It helps her sleep at night.

Everybody's Fool
Somehow, somewhere, I feel like I've made a terrible mistake.
My lenses are off and the flower's burning in the afternoon sun are like melting bludges of color in an impresionistic portriat. I cannot help but wonder what Ake would say if he could see the suburban horror of palms and tawny beaches that mocks me as I write. Skaters and bikini clad blondes and the fact that I am probably exaggerating. It may just be the shocking deception, that I had imagined this place so differently and despite my protests thought of it as a chance to find happiness of some strange nature. The climate is strange, the people more so and yet everything recalling some ancient postcard of sentimental value.
I don't feel I'll belong here.
I left my house looking through the door's glass expecting perhaps a little ghost that would not scare me, as the mouse didn't scare me. Because that was not my home any longer. Those were not my problems nor my worries now.
The sense of incompleteness strangles me. I've forgotten something important , so many things I would like to have done or given. Maybe that's the urge to work, to sit outside my motel room and set down what I'll pour into the screen as soon as I get the chance.
I think I'm starting to fear this, more than ever; it is anger and anguish, not the soft, translucent sorrow of the morning or the selfish reticence of the last months.
I had imagined so many things, created a universe where I was heroine and couldn't care less for what all these strangers thought. But the fact is I care, I am starved for love as I've always been. Millie was right, loneliness can kill, and I know I don't want to die.
I was expecting so much of this place and this is only the first real shock, the first real dissappointment. Coming so far down this brave long day, passing through exhaustion and the painful childlike expectancy.
That is me, for whom everything must be perfect and made and handed on bended knees. Every word, every coma in the right place, to create, to give meaning; to make this diary something worth reading. All these abilites I have lost and shattered fot the sake of periodicy, as if I have betrayed my dream , my silent promise to make everything fit. To emulate the great ones of my art.
This will pass, it is only the first instants, it is only the chemics stinging my eyes. It will all pass.
I want to walk along the beach with my mother. I'm thankful, as alwaysshe's by my side.

The Last Word
It seems that I am walking in a dream. That I didn't really wake up, more tired than the day before. This is the last time I write from my computer for some three or four months. I'm leaving, in two hours time. Finally I'm starting to believe it's happening, finally everything is hurting as it should hurt and I'm crying because I'll miss everyone and everything. I'm going to miss my old life even as I start the new one, because I know that when I'm back I'll be someone else, something more.
Fancy words, just dancing on the tip of my fingers as I write them.
I just wanted this day to end. I don't know how we ever got through with everything, with all the things that happened and all the things we still had to do. I don't know how I woke up to find myself ready to take care of my tenth year grades or my mother's backup. I don't know how I could be ready to go and say goodbye to my aging aunt in the hospital or to say goodbye to my friends as I held them for the last time in three months. I couldn't cry. I wanted to, I was just to exhausted and rushed to bring myself to do it. I had a most horrible nausea and a headache, I was so tired, so hot, so hopeless. It seemed I would be sick at any moment and yet I still managed to have everything done... now I cannot seem to shake off the feeling of discontent, that I'm still missing so much and that I want to be on the plane with nothing but sleeping to do. I want to start, I'm so tired of ending.
I'm leaving my house, I want to see the new one. I'm leaving my city and I want to know the new one. I want to get the feel of, the atmosphere, the particular breath of life it will have. I want to feel the streets under my feet and I want to work and I want to do things and create things and I'm so tired...
I went to see my aunt at the hospital... my aunt Tilina. The pillar, the strong one. She's sick, so terribly sick and she is just so vulnerable now. There is no wonder in the pain such a sight must cause to her protected. All my life I have known her strong and well, all my life she has been there, beautiful and wonderful in her own particular way, doing everything for everyone at once.
She can do nothing for herself now.
She's scared but she's trying, she's being strong. She'll get through, I know too many people who have done so to be afraid of this.
Thirty minutes to go and the panic is comign again. I'll say goodbye to everything and I'll regret it every minute and love it for the fact. I'll run into teh arms of the unknown and I'll fear it. But I'm going to be alright and I'll cry and I'll tell Andy how much I miss her through the msn. And I'll write it now for all of them to read, all my friends, how much I love them, how much i need them. Adrian with whom I can speak and cry and work. Lorena with whom I can laugh and forget. With Andrea with whom I can live and relive everything. I'll miss Alan and Paola and I'll miss you Cesar because it's been so long since we've spoken and it'll be longer still. Because I knwo them and they know me, as best as we can we know. And all the tears and all the happiness will leave me empty, ready to be filled in this new place.
Millie i love you, you know me better than anyone, Joel I can't live without you and your simple goodness, Alex and Furya with whom I can talk as much as I can about all the possible worlds, Rick who is adorable in his blindness, Nina and Noemi and Carla because they are special and hae shared sleepless nights both cheerful and agonizing. My darling child Marina, you ahve suffered and missed and I know it... and I'll miss you all.
Millie I'm coming over to see you...
God this is hard, this is really the last time, I want to say something significant and nothing comes out.
I'm worried and my aunt is sick and everything was so depressingly old and worn in there. Such a piercing differece from where Lorena was staying. I nearly fainted then, now my head pounded horribly and my throat ached for crying but there was no fainting. My aunt is such a large patient and Lore was so diminished, she was small and delicate and soft and tender. My aunt is a woman, how scary, to see it all so charply and know it.
Goodbye. I love you all.



The Bound Woman


What sign of the Black Zodiac are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

The Hunger's Strike
Two more days till the final hour in my country. My mother has sudden wratful attacks against me and my papers and other things. Everything that I haven't packed or neatly ordered in my room and the vicinities. It's normal of course.
I'm completely out of inspiration and I don't know what to write anymore. I feel I must, record something of the fear and the not wholly unpleasant expectancy I'm feelign towards Santa Cruz. I know I won't be able to do many of the things that usually take up my time in those first days. But I want to see it all. I want to get there and see my hosue and my school and my garden. I want to know where I will sit and write on my notebook while I don't have my computer to do it with.
Mother calls from her room, she calls to say something unpleasant, to cut the flow of words and strangle it with spite.
I must write to Millie, I need her phone number.
I fixed most of the things that were bothering me today. Called the school, scanned what I needed to scan, said my goodbyes to dancing friends. I knwo all the documents I need for school which is a relief considering I so desperately want to attend it. I'm missing one probably, but I'll get it tomorrow, maybe even see my friends. I need to fit all my data into two CD-ROMs and then I'm ready.
Or so I think.
There are still so many things I'd like to do, not really anything about organizing, but creative work, sketches I'd liek to finish, banners and other things. Tie knots, or "atar cabos sueltos" as you say in Spanish.
Went to see Andy on Tuesday. I wanted to see everyone, but there wasn't enough time and she wouldn't come over to watch the movie with me. I should've called everyone the day before becuase I really wanted to see them. But I guess I'm just disorganised liek my mother says.
Ah well, I'm rambling and I miss them already, I must go to sleep and try to fix Andy's blog before I go...

Stolen Pearls
It's been pandemonium these last few days with me having no time, indeed no volition to come near the computer and just sit down to write. This is my last week in Mexico. Things seem to be growing ever more difficult as the final day approaches, my aunt fell sick, my school info si not ready and I get even more scared by the second. I've been doing everything not to think about my departure but all I seem to be doing is fixing those details which will make life bereable for my first months. I need to get my skirt, my CDcase, my drawings scanned and I've been working for everyone lately, maybe as a sort of gift before I leave, or maybe because I cannot bring myself to work on anything that has to do with the trip.
With all the webbuilding and going out that I've been doing there has hardly been a second for me to write, even when I truly wanted to. There'll be even less time once I get there and yet this is something I simply can not let be. I'll stop writing for some days now and gain, weeks even, but always I'll come back to explain my absence to myself and I'll write this for myself and only for myself.
To cry here.
To scream.
To hurt.

Nothing much
Once again the lateness of my awakening leaves me with a strong sens e of distaste. I cannot bare to do so little when I want to do so much.
I better do this fast and go to sleep then since tomorrow I'm going out with friends and I need the morning to scan and get to work on all the art I still owe people.

Sloth
I'm reading the Merchant of Venice. Apart from that I haven't done much, unless all the editing and html writing for my blog has brought.
Today I've felt too many times the need to cry. I don't like doing it in front of other people, I don't like talking about things that bring tears to my eyes or suddenly think about them. It's foolish, exposing myself when I don't like it, thinking of songs, of anything in particular that just stings me so deeply I can't control it. I wish these things were in my control but they're not.
I woke up at an abominable hour today and my mother is right. It does make me feel depressed. The day was beautifully bleak though, and I went to my therapy. I cried over dad again or nearly did anyway. I have the most curious feeling of wanting him to notice I'm reading Shakespeare. I close my eyes and conjure images of him picking up my book and asking me, commenting about it, telling me those tidbits of interesting data he used to give me when I was a child, when he bought me books. They did that for me, my fahter and my mother, they opened the door for me to find out my passion in life and I'm so damn grateful to them. All the stories he told me, all the plays she took me to, every hint on what she thought art was, every book he ever mentioned... and I don't think he cares much for the harvest now it's beginnign to give fruit.
I should go to sleep because I am tired and I am angry at having done so little considering how much there is to do yet. How many things I have to fix in my room and in my life before I go. I should have ordered my books today, I should've called my school, I should've called my dad and told him I wanted to go with him to lunch and get the photos at last... so I could take them with me.
Me and a gun and a man on my back
and I sang holy holy as he buttoned down his pants
I know I must ask him to care, but I don't want to be an obligation. I don't want to be something he has to do, something more in his agenda, another tension in his life. I'm hsi daughter, he
This song stirs something within me, something hurtful and sordid, something filthy and of agonical value. It makes me think of wide-eyed confessions.
If I don't tell these things, if I don't write about them, abotu everything I want to say or do or just shout... then I'll go insane. I know I will, tears streaming down my face and I feel like I could hate him. I don't what to do, I don't know what to say that won't sound childish and stupid. Selfish. Horrible. I want to know he loves me because I can't stand not knowing. I want to know if he'll miss me because I'll die if he doesn't.
I want someone's arms around me. I want Diego murmuring comfort to me. But it's over and I'm in pain.

Tinkering
Already 8 am and I'm trying to see if I can edit this blog to make it look prettier. If I can I'll do some layouts for my friends.

After the whole morning and a large part of the afternoon I have managed to change the background, but haven't figured out how to upload images... till now. Thanks to Lore I have everything ready I just need to finish editing the main pic and I'll be done. I don't think I want various versions.

Back
Late already and I must soon go to sleep, but not without setting down whatever meaningful events to the day.
Had a row with my mother about my responsabilites and money and something completely trivial which resluted in me not goign to see anybody today and doing my duty at my dancing lessons.
Woke up relatively late and am tired due to classes. Forgot my dancing shoes. Must get up early tomorrow and work on a lot of things.
Aesthetic theme comign out somewhat blur. Soemthing to do with mysteries and my complete lack of work on 'Cloouds over Styx' tomorrow I write or I die trying.
Have to scan, have to work... have to stop fearing I am so afraid and so self-concious. I'm going. I'm really going. To where nobody will know me or like me or love me or speak to me for a time.
I'm dead scared. No computer, few books, mother stressed... writing as a succor I guess.
This is disjointed and rather awful. I better go to sleep.
Almost done with Dorian Gray book, I'll finish it tomorrow as a sort of class practice or something.

In memory
Of the many things I can recall from my childhood there are three manias: dinosaurs, marine biolgoy and pirates. Thankfully mmy chosen profession is one that can encompass all three. As a writer I may venture wherever I please and that makes me happy.
I've just come back from watching 'Pirates of the Caribean'. Remembering everything I loved about this particular field remembering how much fun I had as a pirate's daughter when I was eight, how many times I saw a musical or a movie about the Treasure Island, how many hours I could spend just waiting to be let in at the Disney spectacle.
It made my day, and it made my week.
It made me forget yesterday's bitterness and now I decided I'm going out with friends tomorrow. Life is good when my father is not involved.

Out for the day
"Maid in Manhattan" has just ended and I'm a little bit less angry, a little more willing to write thatn some hours ago.
Went out with my father today and I must say the whole day has been a disaster, except for this last movie my mom rented for us. My father can't give me three hours straight just for me alone, I don't know if it was better to accept Saturdays as the day I see him. True, now I spend more time with my cousins, but dad will rather talk with any of my uncles and aunts instead of just looking at me. He never does anything for me exclusively unless I ask him. I really wish that he would one day just surprise me. A real wonderful surprise that shows me he listens. He goes to Russia he brings me tourist t-shirts, he goes to Argentina he does likewise, hell he goes anywhere and he can never think what to bring me. Frankly I don't think he even tries to find things for me. He just dumps whatever in his bag and finds stuff for everyone else.
And of course he could never know. I don't speak to him anymore. I just can't bring myself to talk to someone who doesn't want to hear me. I start speaking and stop midsentence and he doesn't notice. I cry in his car and he doesn't notice either. He laughs and waves my every problem with pseudotheories of pseudosciences.
I even woke up late, around eleven and half in the morning and I was wishing to get up at nine. I went abnormally early to sleep last night, I was tired because Ake, Javier and myself had gone out all day on Friday.
That was enjoyable, that and Wednesday made my week worth everything.
I think my talking to Javier made Adrian uncomfortable, maybe I was flirting and I didn't realise. I shudder to think I could do what was done to me. It troubles my mind of late, Adrian always has that effect. I can't helo him and I can't discenr what is wrong with him. I know he is angry, I know he is sad, I just don't know what to do about it except tell him that I'm there, even countries away I am there for him to speak with, for him to cry with. I'm just... there...

Days the sky cries
Was unwittingly awoke at some time near 8:30 am by my mother and her guest, Enrique. They had a congress today and had to be up and refreshed by 10 maximum. No way to go back to sleep with the noise they were making and frankly it did me good just to eat breakfast and get a bath and start my day in the actual morning instead of noon. I'll be better equipped when dealing with the school timing.
Well ramblings aside, I did manage to produce a decent pic of dearest Celia at last. I also inked one of the sketches I have. I'll do two rough CG colored sketches of both Celia and Claw and two natural media proper drawings of each too. I think I'll try my hand with Rodion in water colours and inks (same goes for Claw). Don't have the slightest idea of when I'll get started with Clouds over Styx again (since I actually deleted all I had, which wasn't much) or with the packing. Choosing what things I'll take with me besides clothes is going to be hard. I think I'll take my drawing equioment, my 'lost soul' diary and both Clanbook: Baali and Revelations of the Dark Mother. Two books I cannot part with. I'll try to smuggle in either Dorian Gray or one of my Lovecraft collections.
I'm tired and I'm still ranting.
Went to the psychiatrist today and I do love that street when it's raining even if it lands me with a pneumonia.
Reeived mail from Millie.
Most add the most imperishable info inside a CD-ROM and take it with me, along with the Office and PS softwares.
God this is becoming real... oh dear lord I can't stand it.
Had the most strange dream Tuesday night, suppose it had something to do with the accident or actually going to sleep early (maybe that's why I haven't had picturesque dreams of late). It was set in a pseudo-castle-manor I am sure I placed in Northern Iberia. There was this old bloated tree, one of those monstrocities who have centuries upon them, and everything was green and the sort of place I love. The tree was nearly black (my psychiatrist says it must be him benerably watching over me, but those sort of trees are not fatherly, they eat the living hiding their remains inside their swollen roots). The castle belonged to a girl called Paola I had known years ago and not even befriended. She had invited us over for vacation and I remember most of my young cousins (both sides) were there. They were all talking about going to a darkkiosk atop a mount that seemed to entretain youngsters in the evenings. It was visible from the castle's grounds and there were lighted paper lamps. Paola escorted me through the rooms telling me that I would be in charge of the keys ('The Other' came to mind). I can vividly remember three things, the dining room of nineteenth century decay and dancness and two inner courtyards both dark and mosso covered. In one of thems workers were busy digging a very square sort of hole, the better for some large structureto sit upon.
It was a very strange and wonderful dream. It was also wonderfully absurd.
Should be going to sleep now. No one seems to appear and I'm rather tired and want to get up tomorrow and do some sketching.
Maybe I'll answer some mails before.
Bought "El manual del guerrero de la luz" at last. I cannot seem to bring myself to read it.