|
|
Sunday, November 2nd, 2003
|
|
|
Yeah so what if i am? so i'll still keep on writing in this stupid journal. ya'll don't read it. i'm not afraid to covet. i covet what i don't have. ah my beautiful. i covet people's nice clothes, then i go and say that it's stupid to buy them.
i covet people's boyfriends, then i go and say that it's immoral to love them.
i covet people's money, but i say i never want to have a lot of it.
i covet people's social lives but i'm okay with being alone.
oh, i covet others' intelligence. oh how i covet that. i am a furtive glancer, i look at people's grades. i covet what i cannot have. i covet everything. those that want to be doctors although i'd never dream of being one; those that want to be lawyers although i think they're trash; those who are artists although i claim they make too much of themselves.
"endlessly i covet and case"
i covet what others say. i covet words written and spoken and coined daily. i covet innovation. i covet friendship. Where are you, my friends, but with each other? i covet what i want and what others want. i am bad. i do bad things. i am close to a blow addict. i covet her. i covet the things others can do to themselves, without regards to themselves. Where are you guys when i need you, why do i have to covet your depression, your preoccupations, your doubts just to feel like i belong? i have enough of my own loneliness and enough of what i call my own misfortune not to have to want your too in order to be in the club. get away from me if you want me to hear about all the shit you're worried about and get away from me if you've got lots of money you don't know what to do with it and get away from me if you're sad cuz you're alone all of a sudden and you're scared of being like that just like me for a very long time.
"todo lo humano es envidia"
we are all like this
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
Friday, October 17th, 2003
|
|
|
Zealous You,
ravage the text
You take the significance
and roll it out for me
surging and rosey.
What do I do?
I blush, maybe, I am faithless,
"Lie further off," I cry,
and turn my novice mind
from you exotic strippings,
the tickles, smart-salty of your
little commonplace book.
Thinking fondly of next semester...
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
Wednesday, October 15th, 2003
|
|
|
So I nearly ran home with this in my head, for no reason in particular, but then I got distracted with the whole "Good Vibrations" thing in Ursa's which was too packed to get into anyway...Apparently orgasms are sought-after things at Wash. U.
hmph.
She was weak in the knees. She almost laughed at that, because it was a phrase she'd heard often in Judy Bloom novels and cheap romances--but she was actually physically weak from the thighs on down, and maybe up a little higher. All from a touch, it was nothing practically. He had opened the door for her, and, standing between her and the door, brushed his hand against her. Imperceptible--nearly. The simple chivalric leading-you-at-the-small-of-your-back-to-wherever-I-want-you-to-go gesture. It was silly how much she felt it. So silly she could have burst out loud, collapsing in an idiot effusion of giggles, so silly she could have turned and taken him there like she'd always imagined it would be. Imperceptible. She sat in the chair instead. She crossed her legs. Her limbs felt awkward and she wanted to take them off and fold them up beside her. He took his chair and nonchalantly said, "Yes, now, what is it, D?" Always her first initial. Ha. He'd turned fully, hands woven beneath his chin--his gaze was smooth like water. Weak. He washed the words away and she was an empty vase into which poured everything she wanted of him. There was the intellect. There was also the charm, swift confident smile, slow hands, sharp pen. It was a jealousy, it was a desire. It soon became both, or neither, and she thought she trembled all over or laughed, shaken by her laughter, unable to stop she thought, so weak, it seemed to her like nothing was there for her to keep her head above--he blinked. I won, she thought.
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
I dunno guys, it'd be pretty dern kinky.
Whips and chains, handcuffs, smack a little booty up with my belt
Scream help, play my game; dracula man I'll get my fangs
Horseback and I'll get my reigns, *school teacher let me get my brains*
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
Tuesday, October 14th, 2003
|
|
|
"drooly, slurpy, wonderful, raunchy, salacious"
DELICIOUS DELICIOUS DELICIOUS
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
After having read my entry, I want you little Trifecta pals to decipher...first one to get the most dead-on wins a...hmm..wins nothing but my respect, and maybe a cookie
I LOVE YOU GIRLS! trick or treat, give me something good to read...off to fanfic Erose you silly thing.
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
These are the thoughts in my head, my vague little crumbs of a story. Enjoy, little birds.
I am you are s/he is they are we are I was you were s/he was they were we were i have been...
The trees were with the wind outside she's always cold and flips her hood up like protection.
bound bellies
white thighs
round smile
butter skin
red vinyl armchair
one window with the blinds turned in, invisible from without where is it?
manicured hands smooth paper hands, gentle exacting fingers POINT out lines POINT out mistakes PRAISE
a close reading
a close
touch
warm rub
to close her eyes and see behind them skin-dark peaceful to hold them there
to keep from bursting into laughter, to keep from crying out loud
knees knocked
knew
who is doing this?
late night nape neck no, more, now
singe swirls, sideways, Singing!
it's strictly autobiographical
a forced rhyme
the all-over frame
patient fire
a complete pleasure
a complete pleasure
a pleasure
complete
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
Monday, October 6th, 2003
|
|
|
I am going to type, no I am going to write for 15 minutes and I'm not going to think about what it is. My brain needs to shit out some things, it needs to like purge out all the forcedness that is entangled with college writing, with thinking analytically about evolution, sex with bears, sex with boys, sex, sex, stereotypes, and money. God, every day i get more and more bitter about not having money. I waver back and forth between feeling guilty for taking my mother's and spending it on an education that's going to get me nowhere even if it takes me to Europe. I mean, an ENGLISH major? What is that? I can remember stalking up the stairs of Duncker to say goodbye (and secretly say "I love you") to my first college English professor, a living half-dying sycamore that took up root and grew leaves in our mind in Ridgley. Which oddly enough was like being in a hobbit's hole. Anyway, I felt the magic of her, like the power, the years and the recognition - the recognition kind of blotted everything else out, it was like a fog and for a moment I saw myself far away where people knew my name. Ha. Marissa Alvarez. I'll keep it that way. What a fantastic pen name, honestly. Eat shit. She says to me, People need writers. People need good writers these days. And there will be jobs for you, you will be needed. There are prophets here in these halls, and I don't know who to listen to. What the fuck am I going to do with this head of mine, after its stuffed with so many tidbits--John Milton wrote a bubble bath, Shakespeare is gay, Hardy makes us cry, and Darwin makes me hate. God. Life has to be able to listen to what I tell it. Do what I say young lady. I'm so sick of being alone. All I have is school, and all I have is academia, no wonder all any of us people can think about is student-to-professor affairs. There are bodies rubbing in an office somewhere, there and sweaters and suspenders on the floor. There are all the important scholarly books staring blankly at it all. Haha. They must laugh in their little imaginary bound bellies. Haha. Alone alone alone. Fantasy is like breath its like food, but then so is food. There's time to decide people say my mom says really, and so does He, you have to know your whole life and then. Every good thing comes to you.
(this is something that might go into/result in/inspire a short story that is in so many ways evidently autobiographical. Feel free to leave feedback.)
***
Every Good Thing
I pick the cart with the bum wheel and then proceed to struggle with it down the canned foods aisle. We’re college students, so the grocery store is foreign, it’s too much to take in all at once. There’s elaborate displays of pasta sauces in front, shining cases of doughnuts with swirls of frosting, and every good thing. So Christi and I scoot over to the cereal and breakfast foods. There are those tiny coupon machines attached to the shelves, and Christi reaches a freckled arm out to take one.
“Ooh,” she says, “33 cents off french onion soup mix. Where’s the heart attack aisle?” It seems ironic that anything weighing 110 pounds with smooth, straw hair and a flat, tan belly would be talking about heart disease. Christi’s got that lightness about her, even in winter, like she’s just spent the last three weeks in the Carribbean sipping Mai-Tai’s. We shuffle over to the cookies, cake mixes, and candy.
I’m trying to be like my mom at the grocery store, with my little list written out on lined paper. Except I forget to cross off the items as I find them, so we spend extra time with the cart, making sure we haven’t forgotten the mayo or tampons. Christi’s grabbing all sorts of crap—processed meats, those little pre-packed lunches, bite-sized Milky-Ways, brightly food-colored yougurt. She steps back from the large cases of bologna. She rubs her left calf with her right big toe.
“Well?” I look at her, expectantly. This is one of my many let’s-get-down-to-business faces. Christi ponders two different packages of string cheese.
“Which one is better, do you think?” She’s squeezing the plastic from bottom to top. I picture her future children living only on string cheese and microwaveable dinners.
I take the packages, turn them over, and read the ingredients label.
“I don’t think it really matters. Cheese is cheese, it’s all bad for your arteries anyway.” But, who am I kidding? I love the stuff. I toss one in our cart and pick up a small rectangle of cheddar.
“You’re weak,” Christi says. She laughs and hits my arm with her freckly fist. The grocery store music is playing an instrumental version of “Walking in Memphis”.
“So how was the party this weekend, at Carlos’ right? I never made it that far.”
“You ask as if you think something actually happened. Does it ever?” My voice is flat and I’m not looking at Christi, I’m checking stuff on our list. “I mean, it was typical. People danced, people fell down, I narrowly escaped being barfed on. But, you know, it was great. Really. Just awesome.”
“You never give things a chance. You’ve got to, I don’t know…take your life in your own hands. Was that too motivational speaker for you?”
“A little. But, you’re right. I guess. I’m just, well, look at me!”
Here I am in baked goods with my clunky glasses and frizzled dark hair. I’ve never even been to the Carribbean. I’m wearing over-alls and a cream tank top with frayed edges and I feel like 40. It’s almost hilarious.
“Hey, I’d do you,” Christi says in one of her many seductress voices. She’s got the whole winking like Marilyn Monroe thing down to a T. Even I can’t deny how cute she is.
“Great. Thanks. I’ll remember that for later,” I decide to crumple up my careful list and make my way over to the chips and salsa.
“I thought you said we were going to turn over a new leaf?” Christi wrinkles up her forehead now. She trusts me too much.
“Ha. Who keeps to those things anyway?” I pull down two air-filled bags of tortilla chips, then take the two behind those. It’s a neurotic thing I do, I guess. The good ones are always farther back in the shelf.
Christi’s easy to sway, so she picks out some cheese sauce and mild salsa. It’s funny because I’ll probably eat all of it before she does.
“Look at all of the different shapes, god,” I’m looking at the selection of tortilla-chip variations. “There’s ones that look like little cups, bite-size, curly-cues…”
“You’re hopeless,” Chrisi says, as though she’s been rolling it around on her tounge since the string cheese.
“Yeah, I really am.”
|
|
Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.
|
|
|
Yes, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Random just-home thought:
So I'm flying home to L.A., which, in my humblest of opinions, is the best flight ever - who wouldn't want to fly into Los Angeles, the great computer chip from which all intelligence springs forth? I am a little sarcastic when I say this (okay, a lot sarcastic), but to be honest, it's the only time when I feel truly proud to live in L.A. Really. You take for granted where you live, and when I fly in at that height everything looks pleasant, the valley to the foothills to the mountains with just a glaze of snow, the slope of it all back down to the ocean, thinly lined by those beaches - miles and miles of wonderful beautiful powder-sand that nobody else has but us. The buildings, the pavement, the tiny circuits of crossstreets and the huge arteries of freeway, alive - so alive with so many people. It actually amazes me. There's no other place like it. If you haven't been you really haven't lived.
The man I sat next to (in first class, woohoo!) shook his head when we were landing. I don't think he comprehended that huge circuit throbbing with all kinds of life down there stuck between water and rock. I could have almost explained to him how beautiful it was, how Denver or Minneapolis or Ft. Worth could never have rivaled the essence of it all. I think that he might have thought it was too much. Excessive. And yes, it is that too. Oh, but home. I love you. You never cease to draw me back.
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
I'm kind of sad that my story isn't good. Maybe it isn't good or it isn't developed or I wrote it in 3 hours and it just didn't reach the level of profundidty without sidestepping melodrama. I dunno. I find myself jealous of Erica, you crazy thing, whose story was awesome - not solely in the details, but in the way that the ending tied everything up, was perfect - everyone loved it. I felt like people were just being polite to me, which is okay, because I acknowledge the fact that aside from a few lines it was no Nobel Prize-worthy piece. BUT. I hope this is no sign of what is in store for my writing.
However, to back myself up, I have enrolled in one extra class. That's right girls, Text and Tradition, Lebowitz. Yeehaa. The only writing class that might make me feel, once again, like the days of highschool, to feel of any worth. To get a tiny glimpse of what success might be like after turning in a really challenging paper and not get a B+ when all is said and done (by the way, where the F are our last JLo papers??). Well I have to decide between Leb and fiction writing, they are at the same time. Remember kids, I could possibly suck as a writer of fiction. Sure, I can get a few good lines in here and there, but nothing amazing. My voice is suffocated. At least it can find a home in the kind of writing where it is accustomed to being shackled and whipped (analytical), rather than being randomly jumped in an alleyway by Tito Fiction. (Hehehe)
Sigh. What to do, what to do. I feel like turning to such tactics as "Bridget Jones' Diary" may be the last resort to freeing my creative self. Why do I feel like I suck so much, even when deep down I know I have some idea of what I could write.....oh, the life of comparative values. What a bitch
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
Saturday, April 19th, 2003
|
|
|
Where once was so much thoughtful interest is now a vague and vast space, gaping --
"Add your own"
Yet none have shown.
Oh, how I feel so alone.
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die."
Sometimes I think the enigma of Christ could inspire a rock to write volumes.
Spirituality has a way of sneaking back up on you and making your throat tighten - whether in guilt or in awe isn't quite clear - but you could just cry.
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
I finally had my peach today. It was neither sweet nor juicy. It was not soft. Rather, it was hard and pickled and bruised.
Damn peach. Damn.
|
|
Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
|
|
Thursday, April 17th, 2003
|
|
|
|
I FUCKING HATE MY ROOMMATE--ITS HONESTLY A SHAME THAT I AM NOT AN AXE MURDERING PSYCHO-THEN I COULD TOTALLY KILL THE SHIT OUTTA THIS BITCH AND HER DAMN CLICKING PEN AND HER ALWAYS BEING SICK AND HER SLEEPING TIL WHENEVER AND HER RIDICULOUSLY LOUD AND LONG OTHER-THAN-ENGLISH PHONE CALLS, HER STUPID WAY OF APPLYING NIGHT CREAM LIKE SHES SOME SORT OF INFOMERCIAL BEAUTY MODEL HER ANNOYING TRENDY DESIGNER BAGS AND SHOES AND OUTFITS BECAUSE HER INANE CULTURE IS ANGLO OBSESSED, HER WAY OF EATING AND MAKING THIS ROOM ECHO WITH THE CRUNCHING AND DEAR GOD OH DEAR GOD HER INCESSANT, COW-LIKE, ILL-MANNERED, REVOLTING WAY OF CHEWING GUM, HER ALARM THAT SHE NEVER TURNS OFF, HOW SHE NEVER PICK UP HER FUCKING FEET WHEN SHE WALKS AND HOW SHE IS *ALWAYS* HERE WHEN I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE. CcHRISt!!!! I THINK GOD AT THIS MOMENT IS DISGUSTED WITH ME I AM NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO GET MAD LOVE IS PATIENT LOVE IS KIND....HOLY SHIT I COULD BE SO HOMICIDAL IF I LET MYSELF THE LINE BETWEEN PATIENCE AND PSYCHOSIS IS BARELY VISIBLE AT TIMES WHEN YOU LIVE IN A DORM WHEN YOU LIVE IN GHETTO KOENIG WITH THIS ROOMMATE OF MINE WHO I SWEAR TO GOD IS SPAWN OF SOMETHING EVIL AND WRETCHED SENT SOLELY TO ANNOY ME AND MY FRESHMAN YEAR OH THE ANGER THE INSURMOUNTABLE ANGER...SUCCUMBS ME MAKES ME WANT TO THROW UP RED FIRE ALL OVER HER IDIOTIC FACE SWEET LORDSAVEME FROM THISHELL
|
|
Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
|
|
Wednesday, April 16th, 2003
|
|
|
Erica, my dear save me from erotica. The fantic itch has returned and I "durst" scratch it. I was musing today that, if I could get all the Buffy episodes gone by I would watch them all and be caught up with you and your wonderful obsession - but tonight it is Mulder & Scully. Oh, our sad empty lives, that we must fill them with smuttiness.
But, I love us. And some of this stuff is really good too.
|
|
Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
|
|
|
"They loved each other, not driven by necessity, by the
"blaze of passion" often falsely ascribed to love. They
loved each other because everything around them willed it,
the trees and the clouds and the sky over their heads and
the earth under their feet."
Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
Gotta read that. This is an amazing quote. It's so beautiful I want to reach through the screen and hold it up close and make sure it's real that somebody actually thought of love that way. Just amazing. I want to love like that, not now, certainly not now. Someday though. Is a love like that capable of existing right in front of one's face, tangible as rain? I hope for that. Wow. This quote is everything.
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
I feel time like a heartbeat, the seconds pumping in my breast like a reckoning. The luminous mysteries that once seemed so distant and unreal, threatening clarity in the presence of a truth entertained not in youth, but only in it's passage. I feel these words as if their meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing that you will read them and share my burden, as I have come to trust no other. That you should know my heart, look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you, that are you, is a comfort to me now as I feel the tethers loose and the prospects darken for the continuance of a journey that began not so long ago, and which began again with a faith shakened and strengthened by your convictions, if not for which I might never have been so strong now. As I cross to face you and look at you incomplete, hoping that you will forgive me for not making the rest of the journey with you.
-Scully, "Memento Mori"
|
|
Comments: Add Your Own.
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88.8){kind=small}
gatasoltera7's journal
crappy.
nostalgic.