2005-10-12
park in the drive
Now what should I do in this place
But sit and count the chimes,
And splash cold water on my face,
And spoil a page with rhymes?
-- Dorothy Parker
I want to develop a better sense of self. It is important to know who we are, and sometimes I feel like the "me" I think I have established is little more than a fleshed-out facade. I hate the phrase "fleshed out." It's kind of gross.
But what do I really know about me? Am I making this too complex? When it comes to the end of the day, what do I really want? To just be held? Really? I don't know what I want, but when I figure it out, it will probably be something that is difficult to acquire.
[Like, what I want is to go back to Polson and to another dance with Lizz, Ben, Kristine, Isaac, Matt, and Robby (amongst others).]
That's sort of like how Lizz phrased my Gatsby realization that we are beyond our most elusive desires: it's accepting that you want what you can't have, and enjoying a nourishing and delightful life regardless. Like a surrender, yet a victory in itself.
We don't live to work. We work to live. We live for poetry and experiences, for exhilaration and thought-provocation. I don't ever know where I came off thinking I'm better at appreciating that than other people.
I get sick of hearing myself speak. Today Mrs. O (that's right, Mrs.) made me do two consecutive impromptus to her class today. I didn't really buy my own soapbox bullshit. I need more diversity, more variety. Maybe that's what my sore throat is, and I really AM sick of my own voice.
~Can something be old and still be fresh?~
He still won't let me help him, but at least he's nice in his letdown. Sounds like things are getting better without my assistence, imagine that.
--I just thought of something REALLY exciting! Christmas is coming! I LOVE Christmas! Yay!
Horniness is a stupid excuse for being discontent. It gives something to be desired in the supposedly raging hormones at this age. I haven't been buying into it lately.
I feel so different from everyone else. How did I manage to do that?
So Abraham Lincoln was a genius, and looking through his old manuscripts, they have discovered that he wrote about himself in third-person to provide a new perspective.
I've done that once before.
Allow me to try again.
Simply putting one foot in front of the other, she walks to school at a fast pace. Sometimes she gives a marginal attempt to whistle, but isn't sure she's ever quite been in the whistling mood. She thinks you would know if you were in the mood to whistle; that you could feel it. And she hasn't been quite there yet.
She hasn't been quite to many mental places yet. She allows herself to slowly acknowledge that.
Walking through the hallway to get to her locker as the bell rings, she returns the glances of people who look at her face. What do they see? She feels unfamiliar with her own features, ironic since they are hers and have always been as they slowly evolve through her existence. But if she had to visualize her face in her mind, she could only do it by remembering a random photograph pose.
And she wonders if other people feel the same way.
She always wonders if other people feel the same way.
She doesn't like to meet new people as of late, because then she considers how they must see her for the first time, she thinks of their perspective and is a bit disgusted with what they must have to meet.
She has standards that do not match her determination, only her ability to dream.
She can feel good walking out of Tidyman's with the warm and moist sunlight dowsing itself upon her, chocolate bar in hand and song in heart.
She sort of has to be alone, just by her very nature. She's a little too cold and independent when it really comes down to it.
She sees friends tire of her, and wonders it is due to her overbearing ways, or if she is really just victimizing herself and it's nothing, which is almost equally as bad.
(She likes Diana's socks, the ones with cactuses on them.)
She agrees with Ms. Bowen; it is inhumane to ask (tell) a person to describe their identity in three hundred words. She is a little worried about college. About not being good enough.
She fears that her life may be a bunch of generalized, vague cliches.
And she may be right.
But there is more, there always is. Amidst her poetic platitudes, their is truth within.
She knows that when she thinks of her firm past. How she went skinnydipping under the moon years ago, how she had to read it aloud to the class, how he used to pop her knuckles. How she watches the sunset and allows the mind to cease. The past has validity, she says.
She wants to improve her posture.
She wants the hallways to clear a bit more, and for her eyes to stop being sad.
Maybe that's all she's really after, at least for right now.
She wants the words to stop, because she doubts their meaning. It's just her over and over again with this insignificant, repeated pronoun.
It's just her.
What's the opposite of suicide?I think I want some of that.
leesah-likes at 5:47 p.m.