Visionary in Drag

She could have been great. Let's blame her shortcomings on society.

Sat, 30 Jul 2005 09:08:35 GMT

Societal Casualty
July 30, 2005

In all honesty, she doesn’t always like having to think about her movies or her television shows or her books to understand them. In all reality, sometimes she just doesn’t want to put the effort into it that being intellectual requires.

“Do you want to go to the museum?” her mother asks her and she thinks of her father, locking the car doors the second they leave the highways and cursing at the one-way streets that pop out of nowhere and whistling to amuse himself until his daughter so different from the others is ready to leave. She imagines her mother who wouldn’t go anywhere without him bumbling along with her, pretending she can appreciate the value of modern art more poorly than even her daughter on her laziest days. As far as she knows her mother doesn’t even know she has them. She thinks of the people who will pat her back with sympathetic looks when she regales them with the trauma of her parents pretending to be cultural, and those who will maybe want to discuss the three “Madonna with Child” paintings perplexing history buffs everywhere.

“Sure,” she says, even though she’s looking at the television.

Sat, 04 Jun 2005 04:07:36 GMT

But if you really want to laugh, why not try and make yourself?

Tue, 24 May 2005 02:33:57 GMT

I really love my uncle Bill. I sent him part of my post from yesterday about my aunt. He listened, and didn't just tell me what I wanted to hear. He told me what I needed to hear; that my aunt really does love me and her life is a little hard for her, too.

I don't think I'll ever find a job, either next year on campus to cover my work-study grant or this summer to cover some things next year. Dad says they'll send me money, not to worry too much about it. But I do need a job. Just don't know where to get one.

I've been fixating on next year, and I think I'm getting sick of it. I should fixate so much. Everything will come out sparkly, no ulcer necessary.

Okay, so I suppose an explanation might be in order. I'm going to get good about memorying everything I post. Things like this will be under 'other.' And I'm going to write and post what I write so that my actual story count matches or exceeds my 'other' count. This is going to be more personal, though. Don't know how personal it will get, but still.

Today I sat out on the green glider situated in the nook of our deck and read. Shelby was on her leash out with me, but disappeared to the sunny part of the deck in front of the house; she came back panting, she got so warm (basset hounds aren't normally mouth-breathers). It was a beautiful day in that nook, under the shade of the trees surrounding it that are starting to come into full bloom. It's set back from the street so that it isn't necessarily the first place your eye goes to when looking at the house. I didn't get much reading done, but I felt so peaceful rocking there. The only downside was the gnats (that are black this year when apparently they're normally brown) and other little bugs that kept smacking into me. It got old pretty quickly. But I don't think I got eaten by mosquitos.

The next few weeks at school will be funky. The week after this is a four-day week, after that is a three-day week and then the end of the year. Layout's shortened this week in journalism I think to give us more time on our final edition articles that are going to be jokes compared to what we're used to doing, and then a few days of layout. I suppose it doesn't make any kind of sense unless you've been in a journalism class. Or maybe it's just my journalism class.

Just turn and walk along til you get home

Mon, 23 May 2005 01:09:02 GMT

One thing that I really don't like about any of my pictures is that almost none of them with people are organic.

Don't blink or you'll miss it. I love this picture and I'm not sure why. I can't remember if I took it, or my brother was just messing around. That was the only one of him, so I think it might have been me. I like that I almost can't recognize him, that he looks almost peaceful but knows he's being watched.

My Cousin It moment. I was pulling my hair in front of my face like one of the ghosts in a remake of a Japanese horror film and wondered what I looked like. When I was typing like that, I felt disconnected from my fingers and the thoughts popping up on screen. I was just a spectator.

I like this picture, but only on its side like that. It kind of reminds me of the look they used to paint on the Madona, only bored and knocked around. That's bad and wrong, I'm sure. Hellfire all around.

Their eyes were watching the moon

but our eyes were watching you.

We make such pretty messes. When Mom's away the dishes tend to stay.

at work
or at war

My dog looks like a prisoner sometimes

A miserable prisoner.

Two bones. A dog. There's a saying about that.

Now, to tie it to writing. I dare someone to write a story to one of these. Double dog dare you.

I really should do homework now.

PostSecret

Sun, 22 May 2005 06:48:07 GMT

The PostSecret I don't think I've been a very good friend to the one person who's really tried to not grow out of me; I've been too heartsick trying to fix the bridges I've burned with the ones I have and going about it in a shitty way at that to make more than late night promises to myself forgotten with my dreams to be a better person. I just emailed her bearing my soul and forgot to apologise to her. I don't think I've given her this LJ screen name and I don't know when I will. I wish I could mend those bridges, too, but I think they're too shattered for one tube of super glue to handle, and I haven't given anyone else a reason to want to pitch in one of their own. I think most of why I did it in the first place was just me trying to hurt myself without leaving marks for my mom to see.

If you're happy and you know it, turn the volume up and rock it out...

Mon, 04 Apr 2005 04:32:13 GMT

I'm reading The Fountainhead. There's too much of me in Peter Keating to read it comfortably. Just in how he is with people, mainly Katherine. How he expects her to be there every so often to make himself feel fulfiled. How much Roark's aproval means to him, because Roark is and has something and everything Peter Keating could have if he would stop caring about being the big man on campus or being competative or being on the top rung of success and just started being. Roark is his opposite, his ideal, everything he should want to be, even if it's scratching eyeballs to get him to realize. Peter Keating uses people to feel good about himself and what he can and does do, and he does everything of what people expect even though he isn't any happier or better off for it, not really.

My body, my entire life is toxic. Everything I'd done and more importantly the things I haven't. From the way I can't see my toes over my belly to the miniature cuts flaking off my belly like nothing ever existed to negativity to all the novels and books and wonders I haven't actively tried to experience. The writer is someone who sees life and is so overwhelmed by the coolness of it that they just have to go write it all down, to paraphrase someone more genius than I.

Writer. For so long--as long as I can remember--I've wanted to be a writer. When I was shorter than I am now I wanted to be an author, because an author was something special. It was Jane Yolen and The Giver and a Magic Treehouse and more. It was the fat books all snug and cozy stuffed in the cavernous corridors of bookshelves that aspired to be giants in the Adult Section of the Library. I wanted to be an author, because it was something special and my mom would sit on the couch in her living room bathed in clean sunlight and read my book all day long, when she could be in front of the TV with Dad or doing anything else to relax. My mom has always worked so hard, and she would lay down and read trashy romance novels all day like I read trashy slash most of the time. That's the power and magic an author has. Right now, I'd settle for feel like a fucking writer. For feeling like anything.

Writer has come to mean something grittier to me. Authors are in lecture halls and libraries and smoking pipes. Writers are bare mattresses on the floor of an apartment in the rough side of town, with sirens wailing more often than not, and a beat up spiral-bound notebook, and smoking a different kind of pipe. Someone living for and embracing the art of writing by being poor and surrounding themselves in nothing but it. Sacrificing themselves for it. Writer is eternal youth, and struggle, and tears, and rejection letters taped to the wall. Authors are old, and success, and comfort that makes writing useless and soft. I would love to die a Writer.

Tue, 01 Mar 2005 18:53:46 GMT

There's something fantastically familiar and soothing about accoustic guitars. The sound is so deep and warm and comanding, but in a subtle way.

The fucking tedious

Wed, 26 Jan 2005 05:15:51 GMT

The most annoying thing about writing, for me, is establishing. All that tedious shit like dropping what characters look like and when to give the reader their names and a million other important details. It's an even bigger fucking pain when you're doing SFF. I like fanfic, how you can get out plots and kind of remake the characters in your own molding without having to introduce them. If only the readers could just know what I'm thinking without me having to tell them, or I could get past that point on something. Fucking tedious.

Yes, I'm repetitive. Any ideas? Like stop whining. Yeah, I get that.

Tue, 11 Jan 2005 16:25:01 GMT

I'm home sick with a headache, and the carbon monoxide detector upstairs keeps going off so I've got some of the windows open. I think my toes are getting frostbite -.- But I'm not feeling kind of woozy anymore.

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