the sun is in my eyes

I don't want to feel distant, and yet I find myself distancing myself, and I don't know why. I want to be close, but lately I can't uphold my readings, my work, my sanity and get this whole social life together... I'm sorry.

I knew this would happen, I'm trying I really am. What else can I do? They wonder why I'm not at home, it's because I have things to do I am busy. I am doing my best, I am trying my best to smile everyday. I do smile everyday, but I have tired eyes, and tired legs and back, and chest, I'm tired of breathing. Give me a break. I don't like talking all the time, I need to sit and be quiet sometimes. Let me be me, please.

I feel not far away from myself that's the thing too, because I love being in the theatre, I love reading and doing work, I'd rather be busy than not busy, and I'm doing what I love, but it's hard work and it exhausts me... I don't need to explain myself to anyone, so this is over.

I hate when people don't answers texts, ever. rude.

I'd like to learn more meditation, I'm working on it, and it helps but for the most part I get frustrated because I need to do a lot of work right now and everyone else doesn't. Shit I'm talking about it again.

It's springtime, it is, the weather may not reflect it but to me it is. I don't want to wear my boots or coat anymore, I'll be cold and happy thankyouverymuch. I eed something to release all of this stress. Any ideas?

didn't think so.





it's quiet,
and it's sort of a jump start,
but I need it,
in the dark like a spark

one hour a day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMAyVdOOgQ8



"Who was that man? I'd like to shake his haaaand.."

This is so powerful.

yoga -mondays and wednesdays -two and a half hours

goal: meditation tuesday and thursdays

goal: figure something else out for the rest, one hour in a day is hard in university, maybe I could cut out sex and the city........nope. During? multi-tasking never killed anyonre. My goal? Happiness.

There's no app for that.

the plague

I can't write anything. I had an inkling to but my mind gets bogged down with everything I have to do. This summer I'm going to look up like meditative mind detoxes or something, man, I just need a separation of stress and happiness right now. Maybe I need more meditation. I'm making a mental note in my mental to do list that after this post I'm googing it right away.

I think this summer before I'm working with the kids I'm going to wear my sunhat on the bus to work. I sound like I'm crazy, but I love my sunhat and not enough people wear or do what they love anymore. So as I am doing what I love, I would like to be wearing what I love. I want to do that from now on. Why waste my time with things that I don't want to do? I want to plant sunflowers somewhere as well, mental note to ask my mother about that and the publishing contacts she promised...

Also this summer I'm hopefully looking to do another reinvention, Jackie O style, and I'd really like some vogue support but no spring issue to date has been helpful.. There was this green sundress in old navy, it looked perfect. IT'll probably be gone by the next time I go home...

Don't follow me on twitter or tumblr, don't like my facebook posts, I don't care if you do. There's a moment of liberation where you start to live your own life. You tell your parents something they don't want to hear and stick with it. You make a decision that your best friends don't agree with and learn from your mistakes. I've gotten tattoos, gone to school out of town, fallen, gotten back up, and smiled a lot. Wow smiling feels good sometimes. I don't care that I'm chubby, because I'm happy. TGhere's a chocolate eclair in the fridge from dinner and I get to eat it later and I'm not worried because tomorrow I have yoga.

I enjoy yoga, and vogues, and reading poetry, and writing poetry, and writing anything, and watching sex and the city all the time, and staying up late talking, and tzatsiki, and sundresses, and shoes, and art, and reading the newspaper, and any kind of tea, and audrey hepburn, and cosy unmade beds, and warm socks, and laughing until I cry, and posters, and aviators, and puns, and jewelry that means something, and so many more things that I would rather be important to me than anything else.

I'm in my room with my christmas lights on in february, reading a vogue and watching tedtalks and sex and the city eeating chocolate buttons in an unmade bed and cosy socks and my boyfriend's sweater, and I don't care about the work I'm not doing or the people I'm not seeing, the stress in my head or the smile on my face, because in the end I'm going to remember tonight because of the thoughts I had about the good things, and the bad things that were in the shadows of those good things will ultimately fade away.

Why focus on the bad? Why?




in that one intimate moment
with an arm below my breast and ten seconds
before I turned over again,
me, the restless sleeper,
and him -- the hibernation wreaked from his soft snores,
or his messy hair, those sleepy eyes,
his heartbeat his breathing slow
and yet mine pounded away my breathing normal, not sleeping,
not even awake to enjoy it just to feel the pressure
the warmth of his body against me,
and the cold air away,
the intimately designed entanglement of feet
or arms but not really, I don't sleep then,
I turn over then, turn turn turn,
turn and wheeze, but not the gray ones,
not the ones that hurt,
but the ones I feel when and how
he pushes against me,
he crushes me under his affections,
and I turn again, turn over again
indecsive amongst the dark night sounds,
the heartbeat, the hair from his head against my shoulder,
pet peeving my way down to his pushing me off
and out of the bed, my bed of course,
two pillows sir we need two two for us,
and i feel it, eventually,
by then there's no touching but the planks of our feet,
our shoulder blades, back to back
we sleep,
finally, I do sleep, eventually, amongst us,
amongst the warmth but just enough
so that no more heaving or headaches,
but waking up to some sleepy eyes
and tousled but loved
--well, just waking, finally

C;

It smells like eye cleaner in here.

It smells like acid, really, they clean my eyeballs with acid and tell me to come back more often. As if I need any more toxic sludge around my face. As if I need any more busy streets, headaches, and smog thrifting through my body.

I'm going to try to make this not angry.

The funny thing is is that everytime I come here I crave that acid smell. I don't know why I like it so much, but it's oddly comforting...it surrounded me and kept me safe when I needed it most. That sterile cleanliness that drowns out the woes of anyone else lulls me to sleep.

I sound like a drug addict.

I just feel like eating. Am I too tired to honour what I need? I need a break. I had all this work planned for this week, when really I want to read the books and not write the essays. If I have the time I'm going to grab the books I need and then do the papers I need to do next week. I made this decision, and I promise myself to relax a bit this week. I don't want to hit a breaking point this semester. I want to do yoga and drink blueberry tea and eat chocolate with english muffins and butter, and a large glass of orange juice and a pile of poetry books in a coffee shop with my head resting on his shoulder.

I'd also like to laugh with my girls, laugh loudly and watch disney movies and sing along. I want to go dancing, and smile.

I want to smile a lot. Don't be stressed.

Talking like this is stressing me out. ERrrrrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrg.


Sent wirelessly from my BlackBerry device on the Bell network.
Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.

Joy, divided

I remember this moment. This derailing, deteriorating state that I witnessed and was surrounded in. I remember being exhausted, and talking to no one, and looking desperately out every window to see the snow, but I couldn't.

I couldn't even see the light, it was too foggy too much of a haze to even get a whisp through. It was cold, I was cold, but I felt my heart give defeated bursts of last hope, and deflate completely.

My dad took my hand. We don't hold hands. We usually link arms, but it was that immediate now. Immediate enough to hold hands, and he dragged me to two different stores, one was..I don't remember. It smelled like hotel like so much else that I remember aquiring to that smell. The other was breakable, like if I stepped one centimetre off course I'd bring the building down. Surrounded by glass, by tentacles that wrapped around my everything. My rib cage cringed at the sight of anothee telescope-esque eye discovery machine. I felt tired.

I actually can't remember much of what happened, but I do remember the man telling my dad that he really wished he could help me, that he couldn't but he felt terrible, and that I couldn't breathe, and my dad took my hand and walked me to the car in the dark in the snow. Both of us crying silently to ourselves.

I was lost. I'm still lost. When I turn around in a bar drunk and alone, separated from my friends I clench my fist and pretend I'm holding my dad's hand. I've never told anyone that before. I think I trust people too easilly. The one person I relied on through the following surgery has then since given up on me, crushed me, and now I'm sitting ten feet away from him and we can't even speak.

I live life in a fucking haze not self-induced, involuntarilly opaque, and somehow I still end up the fool. Smiling when everyone frowns, and crying amongst laughing crowds. My headaches pound from below my eyes and they complain about light strain or lack of sleep when all I did was get up in the morning.

I don't hold pity parties, but if I did I'd make them silent ones where you would only be allowed to laugh.

And eat cantelope. Copious amounts of cantelope. And he'll never read this.

(This unintentionally turned angry, goes to show I should finish a blog when I start it not three days later)
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Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.

oh and for

I am deteriorating.

Not like before. Not like when there was something missing. Funnilly enough I know what was missing now, and it's an incredible feeling. I think it was around the time of my last eye surgery that it was gone and I knew it. I couldn't write using a pen anymore, and so writing lost its meaning. I am back on that now, and somehow things don't seem so bad, so terrible, so down. I may not be floating up, but I'm floating.

But now I am deteriorating in a different way.

Sometimes I feel like getting older is a form of deterioration, like the fact that my eyesight deteriorates because of my aging (or the disease, give or take) or something like the thickness of my hair deteriorates in its thickness as I age. I think that in my head am deteriorating from my stuck-like-glue self confidence problem, and wondering if there is something else.

Why is there greed at all? I don't get it. I don't understand why people go through school and spend thousands of dollars to do something they hate to make a lot of money. I don't understand I can't comprehend that. Different personalities I guess, but god damnit if they spent ten seconds at my job everything would be different. You don't have to be outgoing, or funny or anything the kids don't judge, they just need someone to hold on to.

I want to let someone hold onto me for the rest of my life as long as they need me.

I watched Leap Year a couple years ago and thought of the question they continually brought up in it that was If your house was on fire what possession would you grab to save? I have thought about this a lot recently, thinking through all of my things, and I guess I had done this when I was younger as well.

I remember when I was in elemntary school I would've grabbed the fourth harry potter book, and then run to my sister to get her out. Highschool? My brother. Siblings have been a constant in my saving from a fire. Now I think about this question, and as I write this I look around my room. there are things that I love dearly, my teddy bear from when I was little, necklaces and jewelry that has been given to me, my cellphone, but in all reality that is known to me if the fire alarm went off at three in the morning, I would run to my roommates' rooms to make sure they got out okay.

I don't care about things. I don't care about my computer. I don't care about my books. I don't care about my clothes. I don't care about my ipod or cd's or any other piece of redundancy in my life. If my house were on fire I would save the only things that would keep me going after the fire, and that would be the ones I love.

I guess this is appropriate on Valentine's Day, to write about my life long dreams and the ones I love, but it is actually true. Something inside of me made a gameplan when I realised I had a fear of driving that whenever if ever I got in a car accident I would rip off my seabelt (O used to practise) and make sure my baby brother who was in a car seat was okay and protect my sister. I haven't cared about myself getting out of that fire or that car in a long time.

I am happy when the people I care about around me are happiest. that's what is important to me. Not winning the Worlds or going to the bar every weekend, not getting the biggest paycheck or seeing every band in concert. I want to see everything that I want to see. I want to experience life on every spectrum, every level, from every possible outlet that I can. And I want to love people, and take care of them, and know that I am needed in their lives, and that by caring they are happy too.

just going to scrapbook

I was thinking of a moment of my childhood on a certain day, my parents had me in gymnastics, I was around four, and I didn't have a partner. Everyone already had one, so me in my jumpsuit and tennis shoes did the excersizes alone. One day while driving home I remember asking my mom about license plates and what they meant, and why some people were allowed to pay to get them to say funny things like "gtrich" or something, and then I asked if I could stop going to gymnastics anymore. I was tired of no one wanting to be my partner, and it was the beginning of me making sure that if I was unhappy alone I would make changes.


tears lost amongst the partner picking,
the conscripted extra curriculars of youth,
but still counting beats in a bar, heals high,
shouldering cold instant fear and fascination
why they continu to put you through, and then they stop,
one too many days come home and play forts,
one too many nights spent listening,
or crying,
or wishing that there was no class tomorrow,
the snow would just swallow us up,
tennis shoes worn until beam time,
ribbons in the hair,
it’s a feminine quality


I guess this is just going to be a mashup of things I wrote on tumblr and decided to transfer here...so..

I want to go somewhere where beauty isn’t defined by running water or a media screen, but by the amount of sand and grace that can be accumulated withiin one afternoon. I want to explore a nation that isn’t owned by intertechnology or any descendent of Henry Ford’s creations. I want to enrich my life with the whole foods of a place where “supersize” is foreign and “more please” is polite. I don’t like the way “normalcy” is defined here, I don’t like the way woman have to look here, I want to find a place where the people are involved and passionate and the surroundings are infinite. I may not crave strict adventure, but I crave the great, wide, mysterious somewhere

wild goose cry

I hate writing in microsoft word. I think there's a curse on it, especially on this computer. I think I wrote a lot for creative writing in twelfth grade and it ruined it for me. I did write my one favourite play a two-hander about two people (obviously_) and my favourite short story final that I wrote... I also wrote my poetry for that class on here, which I wish I still had... I probably do somwhere. I want to reread them, because I didn't do that well on that project but I was really proud of them. I named it "Desolate Island" which I really liked. I didn't do so hot on the project because I think I had no confidence in my poems. I no longer care if anyone else likes my poetry, my stories, my writing, because I love my work now, I have full confidence in my work, I don't care anymore. I write for me.

I'm out of link with writing plays. I want to try and write a short scene today and get myself back in the groove. I feel like I'm going to end up writing a lot in this medium since word sucks for me right now. I can't wait for my new computer so that it feels a little more compact, like my work is right next to me like it is when I write in a notebook, because then I feel more connected to my writing. I love being connected to things. I need to go home today and just shower, and probably eat something, and do some reading, and have a nice night watching tedtalks and relaxing with no sheets on my bed. Welcome to my intimacies.

I'm back in love with my simon and garfunkel, and I'm thinking of looking up some tedtalks on music or theories of contemporary modern music, I just want to get back in and comfortable. Maybe some tea tonight, good old tea!

I'll write more later~!

the blues

It drives me crazy sometimes but I feel like I need to re-evaluate the way I think about spirituality. Not saying that anything is correct or not, but I keep forgetting that some people actually believe in things. I mean, I always advocate for believing in all of its raw unbearability and strength (keep up with my typos, my fingers are still frozen from outside) but I would like to actually experience something that is as raw as belief claims to be.

It's invigorating to pick up a black soft notebook and think man, this could be my bible. That is actually hp seven for me, I have the adult version and I took off the paper wrapping so that it's black. Now I sound like a complete lame-ass, but, really, I'm talking about my bible here, so judge if you must but I'd rather take something written in fiction, or written by me personally than something that disregards progres and refuses to evolve.

I would put my trust in evolving and unfolding before something that claims to be something that its not. Isn't lying a sin? I'm no person of faith by any formal means of any kind shape or form, but I do believe in people, and if the people want to believe in the divine all power to them.

Atleast they seem passionate about something. I guess that's how I'm going to have to look at it. I'm coming more and more apt to continue on in graduate studies in reneissance as everything else sems to be unfolding what with descriptive poetry and the humanist movement, I feel like I shouldn't have been born in the thirties but should have been born alongside the ethical people de Reneissance.

A confusing concept to me has always been my belonging. I don't feel like I belong in many places, and it's hard for me to come about trusting a place long enough to truly belong there amongst my own thoughts and feelings towards it. I belong here though, sitting in the bullring on campus amongst some random bluegrass and people. The bathroom is bright red, when I grow up my bathroom will be bright red too.

And George Harrisosn is watching over me, smiling because he always knew best. He did, really. I feel like I'm a fangirl for all four nowadays, since I came to terms with Ringo's nose and Paul's dance-y contemporary bs he's been pulling lately.

(It was written that I woulld love you, from the moment I opened my eyes)

If you don't know that song you should, it's important. It's important to me to know a lot, know mostly and know in-depth-like. Know things that are important but unimportant. Know details, know why it's cold outside. I don't delve into accuracy, but I delve into the you and me, the everyday, the smiles on people's faces and the fog on his glasses. I would rather know the ingredients of you chai tea latte then any answer you wrote on your last test.

Why dwell over the insignificant details, descriptions, the now, when the now is so beautiful through a different lense? I'd rather know your favourite memory than your pant size, and that's just the way it is.

Poetry is my jam

To me you the sea in flux
In warmth in soft design,
Hold me in your infinite salt bed,
Rocking against me,
Washing me towards clarity.


--

I love it when I feel good about things I write. MAN



Sent wirelessly from my BlackBerry device on the Bell network.
Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.

something in

I watched V for Vendetta last night which rings true and whole into the play we've been working on. I've tried to understand everything, to understand why this play knocks me out so hard or why I want to be more involved in the political radicalism of it all. I'm not a communist, but I am beginning to strengthen my values in equality more and more as I hear songs of protest and anti-capitalist facades everywhere.

What I wanted to say was that on my other blog that I wrote last year, I wrote this a lot:

I don't know you, or have ever been around you, but you are special to me, and I love you.

At that moment in V for Vendetta, I burst into tears. Why is it that something so hard, heartfelt and unique has to be shattering? It's atear down, a shake down, I guess I call it. Why is it so derailing, so stripping? the fact that someone you have never met hears your thoughts in their head and replies back with love?

I realise on this blog I haven't been much in endorsing in love. I think it's because lately it's been either a distant or a too close thing. I need a balance, a happy medium, and I think I know how to balance it out now. I need to forget about the way I look, what people think, what the concerns of the media and ultimately the concerns of other people are, and rewrite my thoughts, to come back to caring again. I've never lost it, it's just been masked by an arc of good intentions with schoolwork.

I have fallen in with society, maybe not ours but the people in it. I have the utmost faith in people that they will love eachother, and if they don't I'll write that off. Regardless of their backgrounds, their attitudes towards me or even not towards me, I know I KNOW that if that is what they need, I will love them. And I do. I have a hard time not lending my heart out to anyone who needs it, that's probably why it feels so heavy sometimes.

My love weighs a ton.

But it does, and it's a constant within my life and I can't help that. I am entrenched in smiling, in the betterment of the people around ,e.

so, it's inevitable to end on this note, but,

I love you

we manufacture

Continuus in contained
Contamination,
I look to you through a lense full of scum,
Or fog, smog, a breaking glass, a fissure in the eyesight of
The lab, sterile and correct, grab your gloves,
Utility belt society in a state of perpetual preparation,
Positioned amongst the settled calves and deer, disappearing,
Fading into the background, searching for the crosshare,
There just has to be a button somewhere a button somewhere,
There has to be a shortcut somewhere, remote controlled airplanes,
Remote controlled racecar, remote control re-mote,
Hide the wire hide the wire, hide the wire before it lulls
Before it hugs my throat, deflating, labrynthing my everyday
Shackled to , deflating, labrynthing my everyday
Shackled to Ford’s separation, bound to a new world,
But forward, but go go go,
And passing through the countryside you hear the black tarmac screaming beneath you, you hear the soil gasping for air, you blind yourself by five hundred channels of radio nowhere and miss the flock of sheep rumbling scared behind you, forgetting you, a thought, a memory, in reverie,
Re-assembling your palette “l’eau d’acidity,” perfume for performers,
Considering remedial chemistry class, dissolve and suffer,
Roundtrip airfare bleeding through,
My backyard willow tree cries at my notebook for its babies,
blowing kisses at my breath, begging for its babies,
Cursing the clouds on gray days, its shade no longer needed,
But we have so much more now, our ignorance, I forget,
Why why why why is there, why is there
Loss or forget? Why is there regret?
Why is there feelings that no one uses, or chooses to un=use its uses,
Don’t give me lip, I’m sick of your attitude, I’m tired of you.

it's breathtaking and deliberate, it's an upturn

there is nothing between the lines, stop reading, I just want things to be simple. I live in a world full of complexity, and i am triving for a simple thrill. something without affirmations, without confirmation, without complexity, without insanity, without reality, without logic just simple me out, knock me out within simplicity..
ravage, break me down, scream at me, rage, rage rage rage RAGE.
hit me with your best, well, your simplist of all simple, comono dragon this, bring me dry toast, bring me settle my churning stomach from stimuli, stimulation is downfall.

without my mind, without my mind, without my mind,

i want to read something and mindlessly, well, no, actually
i want my mind, so i can DECONSTRUCT it with, well, with with with
RAGE.

it rings i my eras, it rings in my fingertips, rings through my nostrils and the split ends in my hair, i transform into medusa, snakes rippling from my every orafice, erupting from absolute inconsiderable deliberate enforcement. bring me life.

I WANT TO LIVE. in technicolour, in spontaneuous love.

god love, what is love love love

sink me with guppy eyes, develop some hatred, some feeling. feel feel feel feel feel and crawl on the belly on the underbelly of this earth and tell me that you still LOVE.

or rage, but do some god damned thing that isn't mindlessly
hopelessly
worhtlessly
pessimistically,
smoking
bullying
bullshit
fleeting
un-passionate
non-descriptive
breaking point

break, break break.

i am boiling on the seat of the savannah and i am alone

in blood red rage

the way you make me feel

I've thought a lot about challenges today. I haven't writtena lot, and I think that's because I have all of these notebooks at my fingertips, and I am returning to the organic notion of writing and my writing in particular. I don't like writing online, I don't think well online, and I'm beginning to think it's because I think too much. So I hereby challenge myself to write in a notebook everyday, whatever I want, and on here three times a week. It's reasonable.

Other things that I've challenged myself with lately are obvious and miniscule at the same time. Having a stupidly heavy courseload for this semester, along with maintaining any kind of social life and relationship, along with maintaining this writing schedule and interest in media and television. I challenged myself just today to reach my heels down during a yoga pose, and I still can't quite get there but that is my new goal. Goals are so important to me, and I'm beginning to shape my dreams and hopes around these goals that I've set for myself.

That's why I'm so good at time management, because when I don't reach a goal I disappoint myself. I have so much that I want to do before one am and I'm not going to be able to do all of those things, and I'm really upset about it. I want to write so much right now because I have time and it's driving me insane.

I think my insanity is measured with a theoretical measuring cup, and the solidarity of it all is being weighed with stones. Some of my stones are big and mishapen, hard to fit into this cup, and others slip right in, but all in all my insanity is flowing right now. A good reason why I'm beginning to take yoga vibe flow seriously. I need more water, I challenge myself to have w ater everyday, so much water like I did last semester. I need a smaller water bottle, or one that I keep on campus.

Or one that is bought I suppose, I've tried caring for the environment but I'm an artist...Well, I do care about the environment but I care about preserving history and abolishing poverty and equality and love so much more. I'm in love with so many people it's beginning to give me headaches, but I'm not focusing on the pain, it doesn't really hurt anyway, it challenges me to open my mind soul and heart to more people.

I sound like a hallmark card for rehab.

I need more sun salutations, I may start doing them everyday. I heard somewhere that if you do them five times everyday it's really good for you. I want to do that, that's my next challenge. I don't exactly treat my body like a temple, but I treat it with respect. It's sort of given me a shit time for no reason all my life, so I'm going to treat it nicely but if I want to eat chocolate buttons I'm gonna eat some god damn choclate buttons. I love British candy.

Something about challenging myself doesn't cut it though. It doesn't get me motivated, it's nonchallant. Nothing motivates me anymore, I want something to be passionate about that is motivating. Direct, I need direction. I need a sanity, life compass. We should invent one of those, that tells hyou just what to do and when. Mine would be made out of mahogany wood. Is that how you spell that?

Interested but a long line of other things comes around too,
sometimes I talk too many questioning to say or think or wonder,
too many too much too lots of money wasted on pain and dunks and downers,
or lovers, wow, so much lost on lovers, it's a headache it's a daft laugh,
it's a long list of mistakes or worries, a long list of panty-hose dark brown legs
underneath a black skirt, but the face is white white wondering what foster care is,
wondering what subjectivity and domestic violence is, wondering but never asking,
nefver standing out of their chairs or setting down the double double machine-gun-holed coffe cup,
whose lid is too big too much to fit to a lip or parted, or two lips, or more,
the windows of the backseat heated up, our breath had too much to say too much to hide from,
in the fog, in the night, too much that we were too afraid to say or do,
too much to remmember, too much to think to why why why why what,
why would we think of what would we do with out all of the signals
and signs,
signs
signs
signs
why why why why