Today I woke up tired, like I always do. I had absolutely cried myself to sleep. It was terrible. I was listening to a sad song (its what I do) when I drowned in tears and saliva. I set my alarm for 7:22 am so I could call Jeremy, but he called me at 7:35 instead and i was so delighted.
I told him about the horrible night I had as best as I could. Sometimes I feel like such an irrational creature. But Jeremy understands me, and he always uses the Bible to make me feel better, helping me to see the light. He's so special. I wish I could see the future for him, just to put his mind at ease. He deserves it.
Im not the girl I used to be. I dont know if thats good or bad. Theres definitely more imaginagtion there than before. My head can breathe. I can dance with it, and play with it, and things are much more lovlier.
The outside has changed however. And I do things I shouldnt do. Things that no one knows about. And these things dont make me sad, or nervous but I know they shouldnt be done. And I dont shake or pray at night. I do ask for forgiveness.
Ive changed. For better and for worse. And its kinda exciting.
Im so miserable without the Fountainhead. I lost it on the Metra about two weeks ago. I was on page 200. Had 500 hundred more to go. I was starting the section on Ellsworth Toohey. Omg, that book is so amazing. I cant believe I lost it. Im going to call lost and found tomorrow night and see if they found. Oh, I hope they did. I find myself not being able to read any other book because of this. Im head over heals in love with it and wont stop thinking about it until its safely in my hands again. My treasuring every page I turn. Falling more and more in love with it. Every sentence that passes through my lips will be of pure gold and truth. I'll whisper them, as to not obstrue its meaning.
I would walk to the edge of the universe for you Paint you a crimson sunset over sheltering skies I could learn all the world dialects for you Whisper sonnets in your ear discovering truth I could never worship pagan gods around me I will only follow the path that leads me to you baby... always
Every step I take for you I will always defend, never pretend That every breath I take for love I could never be wrong, the journey is long With miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep...
I would carry the rock of Gibraltar just for you Lifted like a pebble from the beach to the skies I could build you a bridge that spans the ocean wide But the greatest gift I give you would be to stand by your side Some can criticize and sit in judgment of us But they can't take away the love that lives inside us always
Every step I take for you I will always defend, never pretend That every breath I take for love I could never be wrong, the journey is long With miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep...
I won't run from the changing signs along the highway Let the rivers flow to the highest ground created.
Every step I take for you I will always defend, never pretend That every breath I take for love I could never be wrong, the journey is long With miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep...
Today my german teacher was wearing the most horrible shirt. It was a striped dress shirt. Thick and thin gray, black, red, and white stripes. I was so appalled, yet, I couldnt look away.
I dont know, maybe its grotesque for me to say this, but, all I wanted to do was jump his bones. He's such a good teacher. So well spoken, elegant and gray.
And his accent.
Hes got a 5 o'clock shadow, which I find so manly. Underneath the shadow I see a hint of a few dimples. Its confusing in a way and I am nothing short of infactuated.
I wonder how old he is. Probably 45. Maybe 42...43.
Is he married? I bet he is. He doesnt seem the type though. I wonder what his chest looks like. I feel kinda weird now. I mean, I dont think about sex with him or anything, which is relieving. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone and I can see he has a white T-shirt underneath his ungly dress shirt. I sort of wish he would only wear only that. Hmmmm
Stoned* Lullaby** Expat Feel This Book The Bluest Eye** The Catcher in the Rye* Go Ask Alice** The Fountain Head* The Perks of being a Wallflower* Chronicles of Bob Dylan (Vol. 1) For the New Intellectual Cunt Memoirs of a Geisha Requiem for a Dream * The Talented Mr. Ripley Screenplay* The Devil Wears Prada (for fun) * 1984 White Oleander**
Summer is completely gone. I cant believe. Not that I love Summer or anything. Acutally I really love winter. I know Im really in for it this year though. Its going to be bitter...and terrible and harsh. Just like last year:(
The fire place is warm. Everyone is warm. We type steadily with missing a beat on our laptops. Our precious laptops. I dont have a laptop anymore. That kinda makes me sad.
Ive taken up soymilk and its absolutely lovely. I never drink milk, but this kind is truely something special.
You know what Ive noticed about myself? Im a copycat. Whatever book it is that Im reading, I start to write like the author. Its almost automatic. Sometimes I feel so unoriginal. I guess thats not so horrible though. No one is "original"...whatever that means.
Today is going to be the same I can see. Only, today, the sun isnt glowing its usual muted yellow. Its much brighter, more of a lemon yellow. And even though its only 9 am the campus is warmer than ever. People seem chipper and the ducks have waddled their way from the lagoons and started socailizing. Yes, today is like all the rest.
Except, I will give blood today. Ive never done that before. It wont hurt, however, Im still nervous. It'll be alright though. I will get a cookie at the end. Or maybe a juice box. I dont give blood....ever.
Today, the trees are smiling. I want to be let in only the joke. And the winds whip through me...and I have an orgasm. Light and natural.
The bridges are crowed with people. Eveyone is out. They know it is beautiful. Today is like all the rest.
You can tell that by 3 pm it will be blazing. We will be hot. But we will stand by the edges of the lagoon and the ducks will engage in wild horse play and their wings will ruffle and we will get wet. Then we could be cool.
Everyone is out today because today it is just like all the rest. And tomorrow will be like all the rest.
The man sits on Rose's couch too easily. He's too used to making strange living rooms his home. She clears her throat and turns to the kitchen table.
"In here," she says. She's not going to be intimidated by his notepad filled with numbers. There's nothing to numbers. It's all one through ten. She can count, and she knows better than to be scared of some man who counts for a living.
He gets up and joins her at the table.
"This shouldn't take long," he tells her. "We are just going to go over your expenses. Do you have your receipts?" He has a degree in accounting, she guesses, which he probably thinks is math. It isn't. The word counting is right there, inside it. They all think that it's math.
Rose has a book of math exercises in the closet, hidden beneath the porno magazines her old boyfriend left. She hides it under the smut, because nobody's going to keep digging after they find the spread open legs and the photos of semen tracing arcs onto hungry vacant eyes. It's safer, hidden under everyday filth.
She never got higher than a C- in high school math, and that was good enough for the school boards, and good enough for her. It wasn't math, either. He probably got an A. The first time she ever saw math, real math, was in that used bookstore, when she opened an old book and let her breath catch inside of her. The symbols were a maze on the page, an incantation. It was a coded message that sent electricity through her whole body, and she put her own meaning into it, right there.
She stands up from the table, and motions for him to do the same.
"They're in my closet." she says, and she meets his eyes in a way she knows looks good.
In the closet, she pulls out the box of receipts, which is right on top. Then she pulls out the magazines, one by one, setting them beside the door of the closet. He eyes them, but doesn't say anything. She moves slower, making her gestures more pronounced, exaggerated, like the plot points in a dirty movie. When she reaches the math book, the book of exercises, her fingers brush against the embossed cover. She turns and makes a pout and in a small voice, she says "Do you know much about math?"
"I did my graduate studies in number theory," he says. It's unexpected, and there's suddenly a cold spot in her stomach, but she makes herself smile. "I like to think I'm pretty good." he says.
Rose pulls the book out, where he can see it.
"Then maybe you can help me," she says. She opens the book to the middle, and takes a marker from her pocket. She passes it to him, letting her fingers linger on his, and then pulls her hand away.
She rolls up her sleeve, and there is an equation written there, in black. It's a series of symbols and numbers. There are Roman and Greek letters, all together, strung along a line that begins on the inside of her elbow. It is from a random page in the book. She has no idea what it means.
"That's not quite what I studied," he says, and she knows that this is the smile that he considers his charming smile. This is the one he pulls out in bars, or when he's being introduced to women he knows are single. She smiles back, and touches the top button of her blouse with her other hand.
"If you can solve this one, there are more." she says, and he looks again at the equation. He looks at it more seriously, this time, taking her hand to hold the arm steady. She knows the answer, symbol for symbol, but has no idea what it means, either. She knows what it means to her. It's the first in a series of locks, lines of defences.
This is how it works. He'll struggle with the first question, but solve it. He'll solve the second and third, too. But they never make it past the fourth, and she sleeps with them anyway, because she feels bad. Because she's worried that no one ever will.
He reaches out for the book, but she shakes her head no, and holds it closer to herself. He has a tight grin on his face.
"It's been a while," he says, and she nods. There are symbols there that he would never have studied in finance, she's sure, and the farther beneath her clothes he gets, the less like counting the math would become. Eventually it would be nothing but magic to him, and he would give up.
Only, he doesn't give up. He solves the first equation, writing the answer onto her palm, the soft tip of the marker moving with fast confidence. She pulls up the other sleeve, and he does it again, faster this time. He's smiling now, and she undoes the front of her blouse.
"I hope you don't think this is going to make me any easier on your taxes," he laughs.
There are five equations on her chest, all drawn carefully with the black marker. She doesn't even have to look down to know that he's writing out the answers properly, symbol for symbol, perfect. His handwriting is like hers, and he draws the symbols with the same care.
When he's done, he looks up from where he is knelt before her belly, and she nods. He undoes the first button of her jeans, and begins to pull the zipper down.
"Give me the marker," she says, and he does. With both hands free, he pulls her pants to the ground, and her legs are naked and unmarked. He reaches for the waistband of her panties but Rose shakes her head.
She takes the cap off the marker, and she begins to draw symbols on her legs, down one and up the other. This isn't an equation from the book, but one that just pours out of her. She's drawing from instinct, from her heart, and when she's done she passes the marker to the man. If he can't solve this one, there won't be any pity sex. She won't send him home with a consolation prize. This isn't counting anymore, and he can't just turn to his calculator for the answer. This is math.
Today I woke up pretty late. I had stayed up til three in the morning from watching movies, The Talented Mr. Ripley were among my favorites. After the movie was over I pulled out Lullaby, a novel by Chuck Palahniu and finished off the last twenty pages. The book was pretty good, though it paled in comparison to his best seller, Fight Club. Afterwards, I turned on the Talented Mr. Ripley soundtrack and had sweet dreams. I felt so clean and relaxed in my bed, under those cold sheets, naked. I felt like I was being kissed all over.
I love it when I have the room to myself. Theresa wont be home for another day, so theres still plenty of playtime left. Anyway, I let the twang of jazz and vocals swim through my head, my subconscious...and I had wonderful dreams. I was awake by 1 pm, pretty standard time for me and had a bowl of cereal...two bowls. Then, I started with my music again. My ipod had been running all night, about 9 hours and still, it had 2 more left in it. Im glad I replaced my battery over the summer. It runs so lovely now.
While I listened to my Velvet Goldmine Soundtrack I did some corrections on my German I homework. German, its so easy, but it always takes me two hours to do my corrections and regular assignments. I enjoyed it though. I stumped alot of the time, but thats what I lvoe about German, I can always figure it out. So, things went smoothly for some hours, and I got alot of work done.
At around 3 o'clock I hopped into the shower, got dressed in my long black peasant skirt and creame colored blouse and was heading out the door within 20 mintues with, my back pack stuffed with my big floral pattern covered sketch book and a box a fine and broad "Prima Color" markers. I also had my green blanket, a book The Catcher in the Ryeand some chex mix. I took the bus around to the art building and crosed the street as soon as I got off. There, on the grass directly across from the massive pond. I doodled and read until it was so dark that I couildnt see anymore. Then I packed up and started my trek home which was beautiful.
Im growing as I speak. I can feel my legs, my arms, my fingersnails, hair.....everything is growing and I love it. Im so aware. I can feel ever fiber that touches my sunkissed skin. Im so brown. Mmmmm. I love chacolate. Im a chacolate fudge bar...with arms, toes and fingers. Im gonna love myself like I never have before. Im gonna make up my mind right now that I am more than just my body, my hair, my classes. I am so much more and I know I dont even realize what I am yet. Im gonna stop comparing myself to everyone, trying to feel better because I dont have the faults they do. Feeling worse because I dont have intrinsic qualities that I think they do. Its ok! Im brilliant. Im beautiful. Im happy. I am loved. And these are the kinds of self affirming things that I will start believing everyday. Always
My problem is that I can't come unless Johnny Cash is playing. I can't orgasm without the sound of his voice in my ears. When I do hear him, I can't control myself. I'm afraid to drink in country bars because when they play a Johnny Cash song, I end up in the ladies room with a stranger, straining to hear the music from the dance floor. He doesn't even have to be singing. I heard him give an interview on the radio once, when I was eighteen. Laying on my stomach in the living room, I found myself sliding back and forth against the carpet, my hand underneath me. The sound of him answering questions was as good as the albums I kept hidden under my bed. It possessed me, it wet me. I knew it was wron wrong, but I couldn't help it.
His voice is rough sex.
My mother came into the living room after that interview, right at the beginning of a song. I didn't see her as the music swelled and I rubbed myself and came, my eyes closed and bunches of shag carpet clutched in my fingers. She stood for a minute as I rocked in time to the music, and she said "I don't know how you can like this shit, honey. It's so rural." It would be perfect if I could listen to Johnny Cash while I made love, but David doesn't seem to like it. He turns the CD player off before he comes to bed. And what can I say? Should I curl my fingers in his chest hair, press myself against him and whisper "Please?" How do I tell him "David, I can't come," without it being a big deal? Without him knowing that I've faked it.Without him being jealous. It isn't like I'm cheating on him.
Johnny Cash is dead.
And David is very much alive. He's been at the library all day, and he smells like old newspapers at dinner. While we eat he talks and talks about Neal Ball, who in 1909 turned the first unassisted triple play. I nod and I plan what I'm going to say, word for word. I have to tell him. But admitting sexual hangups to a man is never as funny in real life as it is in your head. In my head I say "Hey David, remember all those times I came when we *weren't* listening to Johnny Cash? Do you remember all those orgasms?" A pause for effect, and then "About that," And what a great story that would make. Even if he left me, which I'm certain he will. It's a preemptive strike. Sure, I'm a pervert, but you can't even make a girl come. Of course, it doesn't work out like that at all. I can plan and plan, but when we're sitting side by side on the edge of my bed, our clothes pulled open, all that comes out is mumbled nonsense. He has his cold hand up my front, tracing the wire of my bra. David. Indie rock boy with the tight shirts and baseball card collection. David, who talks about sex using sports metaphors that are romantic instead of shallow, that turn sex into a game of heros and legends. David, who has never said "this was so good, did you come, I came, did you really come?" who has never said "That was the best I've ever had," but who remembers sex as a series of plays, fouls, surprise victories and catches, describes them with veneration, his dark eyes intense, sincere. I can't bring myself to be cruel to him, even if I am scared, even if that's the smart thing to do. So it just spills out. "It isn't you, it's me, I just can't, without, I mean, I love you, I love your body, and being with you is wonderful, and I don't even think he's sexy, you know, he's just got this voice that, it fills me up and I, it really isn't you, ever since I was a little kid I've been obsessed, you know?And it's the same with other men, it isn't just you," and as his brow furrows and he pulls his hand out from beneath my shirt, I say "I can't come unless we're listening to Johnny Cash."Then David is standing, pulling his pants up, fastening the button. He turns away, and it feels like my stomach is sucking in air. But then he's putting on some music, smiling. "Well," he says as the first trumpeting notes of the song fill the room. I want to say something but instead I close my eyes to the music, and he sits on the bed behind me. His legs wrap around me and he's lifting my shirt. "Love," he whispers in my ear, his voice soft as Johnny Cash fills the room. "Is a burning thing." And it's working. It isn't Johnny Cash I'm hearing, but David. It's David's hands on my body. "And it makes" It's David fumbling at my skirt, pulling it down. And I'm turning to his neck, his shoulders. Pulling his shirt off while he sings along, his voice a little louder now, "A fiery ring." He's watching me. "Bound," he says, "By wild desire." I've got his pants, pulling them down to his calves. He's got his lips against my ear, his breath hot. "I fell in," he says, "to a ring of fire."
I hate being wrong. But it seems like lately, thats all I've been. I try to be a good person but sometimes I feel it's all for show. I feel like if no one were watching me that I might do terrible, HORRIBLE things. But that can't be true. Wait a minute... Ive got to be a good person at heart, though I do some very bad things. I cant even think right now, I cant write. I feel so confused. Im a little dizzy too. Im not anxious yet though...thank God. Because when I start panicing its all over.
This love is a diferent kind. Hes such a friend. A really good friend. And I know Im not gonna get this kind of love confussed with romance. It doesnt make me anxious or make my heart go pitter-patter. He is the nicest most sensitive man I have ever met. I dont even know how to gather my thoughts when I try to speak of him, so I wont even try. He makes me dream. Its amazing really, I never remember my dreams for some reason or another. But ever since I met him, hes all I dream about. When I said this kind of love is different thats what I meant by it. He doesnt occupy my waking life with lovey dovey thoughts of him, but when Im asleep...
I love his voice, the way he talks, how he says "mhm" very softly when hes trying to be sexy. I love him. It happened out of nowhere. Usally I force these kinds of things. Im always on the look out for my future husband, thinking that the next man I meet could be him. John Summers caught me completely off gaurd.
One night he called me, I was watching Conan do something with hair gel and his elbow. I answered the phone in mid laugh. John was laughing too. At the same time we said "Sorry, Im watching Conan." We decided to turn our tvs off and recite our day to eachother. Some how we got onto this whole other tanget were talking about coincidence and fate. I was saying that I thought they were one in the same even though I believed in fate but not in coincidence. He was on the fence. I told him a story. It was my first semester at NIU and my roommate and I had decided to do some prank calling. We picked a random name out of the campus phone book and dialed the students number. His name was Andrew Kennedy and I will never forget him. We talked to Andrew for a total of 5 minutes before asking where he stayed on campus. He replied "Grant". Wow, we lived in Grant aswell. What were the odds that we randomly picked someone from there. However, there were four Grant Towers: A B C and D. We, my roommate and I lived on the 12th for in tower c. We asked Andrew what tower he was in. "C" he said. I was laughing by this time. I love it when things like this happen. "What floor do you live on?" We lived on the very top floor, it was an all girls playground. "Im on the 11th floor." My head was spinning. Im saying all of this to John. "Mhm", he says this occasionally. I later found out that Andrew lived in room 1174, we were in room 1274. He was directly beneathe us. He could not have gotten any closer. I told John that the odds of me picking this mans phone number were so very slim, that I couldnt just chalk this up to coincidence. I told his this had to have meant something. "Maybe I'll marry him or something." John asked me not to say that because it would me that he didnt have a chance with me. I thought that was weird of him to say, but I said ok. At this point I dont think that I loved John. I said "OK, well if he doesnt marry me, then he'll kill me." I was joking. John is sensitive. I thought he was going to laugh. But he didnt think it was funny. I told him I was kiding. He said he knew I was. I put all jokes aside though and said that I did believe that Andrew Kennedy would be apart of my live one way or another. I said that maybe he would be my husbands best friend or something. He went quiet, I could tell he was thinking. Then he said "Hmmmm, I guess he could be my best friend, that would be weird though." I didnt laugh. John wasnt trying to be funny. There was not the tiniest hint of humor in his voice. It wouldve been a cheesy thing to say if he was joking, but both of us knew that he wasnt.
John makes me dream.
One night we were supposed to see eachother but things didnt work out. We ended up talking online. We found a way to tell eachother how we felt without coming right out and saying it. Using the "emoticons" provided by yahoo John typed "I<3 style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"> The next day we talked online again but this time with our mics. He is so witty. I love him for that.Hes always making me laugh which is weird, because guys never make me laugh. At one point we were quiet for a whole 2 minutes. I was sitting in the kitchen with the lights off. The computer monitor was turned off too and I could barely see anything. He asked me what I was thinking about. I said "Hakuna matata." He laughed and I asked him what he was thinking about. "Im thinking about what you said last night." I said "nooooo, I told you it slipped out." He said "I know, but I was thinking about how I want to say it too..."
I have been wallowing for some time now and I'm ashamed of myself. For the past month I have not been able to gather words of my own, I've had to live through the words of others. I notice how their deliciously pecon witts mock my mood.
This time of night I could call you up I'd get angry with athletic ease, break common laws in twos and threes If I die clutching your photograph Don't call me boring, It's just 'cause I like you Take me on back... take me back To the place where I could feel your heart Is this the end or just the start of Something really, really beautiful Wrapped up and disguised as something really, really ugly,
Come by and see me, I'm a love letter away I'd break your name before I'd say, "I really love you, love you, " I don't care if you saw, I watched every inch of film Flash across your features, And I loved it, loved it; I don't care if
You think I'm eager to shut your eyes, well I'm sorry-everybody knows you can't break me with your gutter prose Would you believe it, she sent me a letter, The ring, it nearly weighs her down, she's got another boy, oh boy Steady your ears... read my lips Poetry is not a luxury, it's how I'll break this home And when I'm really ill, won't you cradle me? Man is not a noble animal, but maybe woman is, remember,
I heard you...
Inside your room, you said, "You never really live Until your back's against the wall, " oh did you really mean it? I never break my gaze, if just to see this scar remain reflected in your eyes I think it's time to go home
Oh, tell me your thoughts, tell me your thoughts on liberty, See there's a place where I sink to sleeping Oh, my vote is as red as my blood Will you join me for another round? I haven't had the chance to speak yet
I break the law once every week to feel your touch, What's a book to you in bed, Do you feel better, older? This just makes me ill, your name is dripping from my pen Still you're not around to curse, I'll drop the gun now, I'm still under you...
Marianne, let the ghosts sleep tonight. Marianne, let the ghosts sleep, just shut your eyes and burn the past away.
I seem to be very good at this game. Everyday I give it a go. It never fails. How deliciously sensitive I am to the very slightest wave of emotion. I have always been this type of person though, and I am not confused.
Sometimes I feel so tough and brutish. Others, so fragile, delicate. Handle me with care. I wonder if I'll pass this down to my children; fickle displays of emotion, uncertain crys, and bemused anguish.
Oh I hope not.
I will not think about it too hard. We have for far too long. And yes, we are pros at the sport but we will not play the crying game anymore...
I killed a centipede last night. I stepped on it. Afterwards, I couldnt get its slimy guts off the bottom of my shoe. It served as a temporary yet constant reminder that I had killed something innocent and completely independent of myself. How selfish. I feel horrible. I shouldnt step on things anymore
Im always find myself, sitting here trying to think of something great to say. But everytime I open my mouth my words have an consistent empty substance. I continue to wonder why that is. I thought I was bright enough to let intellegent words flow from my mouth and onto this screen or into my book, but, I've now come to realize that I'm not. Only you are. I now see that those who speak real truth and wisdom are only being used by you. These are not completely their words, but the words you have blessed them with. I always marvel at these individuals, attributing their wise words to some personal internal strength, a strength that doesnt come from you, which is untrue. They are yours and you are theirs.
Oh savior, I wish for you to use me in this way. Even now I fear that my words are empty. That my plea is lacking something genuine. Please tell me that it isnt. My savior I long to confess the words of submission. Why dont I. Is there any way you can invite yourself in and work a miracle? My mother was right. I expect results without putting in any effort. Whats wrong with me? Please take my life. Take my pain. I want to dance with you again. I dont want to be a baby anymore. Please.
I want so badly to be seen as someone who has a good head on her shoulders. I try to practice good habits and I try not to be silly but it never seems to work out. Im never truly being myself. I write these blogs, thinking, hoping that someone will read them. I wish that after they're done they would feel some kind of cosmic connection with me. But the truth is, I dont even have a connection with myself. I feel so detached from all space and time. Its like Im looking back at myself and seeing someone wearing this Jessica mask, and I say to "Hey! She's stolen my clothes!" Its all very silly really, but its seems that everytime I look in the mirror I dont recognize the eyes staring back at me...or through me. I can image that murderers or rapists dont like mirrors. I can image that if they ever saw themselves while they committed their dirty act, that they would go crazy or would be sent into a raging fit. Maybe they would snap out of it and flee. There's nothing like seeing yourself in the mirror doing something horrible that'll freeze you in your tracks and send you running in the opposite direction. Im speaking from experience of course. I dont know how I got off on this tangent, but anyway, Im gonna try to be real, although, Im not sure that Im being fake. How can I say the words that I do and not mean them? Ive come to realize that my words are how I want to feel, they are where I want to be, but I just dont think Im there yet. I always wondered about that. How could someone say something so beautiful and honest but be a liar? How is that possible? I figure that if you're able to speak those words then you've surely got mean them.
I should do some reflecting and try to figure myself out.
I first saw this picture while thumbing through my old english composition book. It is entitled Peanut Butter and Jelly Mona Lisa. It was lost in an essay about Mona, which was called: Seeking Mona Lisa. I couldnt tell you what the piece was about, only that when I saw it I began to feel my nagging sweet tooth. A sweet tooth for Mrs. Lisa. I began to dig and soon after found that this wonderful work was done by Vik Muniz in 1999.
Brief history on Muniz: Vik was born in Brazil in 1961 (thats just five years before my mother). He uses a quote from ancient Roman poet Ovid to describe his artistic statement: "My mind is bent to tell of bodies changed into new forms." HahaI have no idea what that means. He uses materials such as chacolate, spaghette sauce, and PB&J to represent icons of art history and challenges us to see images as "the containers of memory and information." Ah, now I get it!
When I first saw this...deliciously exquisite work, I must admit, I licked my lips. It had been so long since I had eaten and I couldnt fight my unfettering hungry for Mona. Now I see why she has intrigued so many for 500 years; Shes is irresistably inticing. I soon after gobbled a PB&J sandwich.
However, I also thought to myself if it was ok for Muniz to reproduce Da Vinci's work in such an unimaginable way. I think it is. Who cares? We are so uptight when it comes to medling with classics. The unimaginable is welcome when it comes to art I say. Dont hold back from fear of critisism and exile. Embrace difference and invite trouble.
I spent my mornings for a month, playing chess against an unknown opponent through encrypted messages in the personal ads like we were Victorian lovers. It started with a simple monoalphabetic cipher, an opening chess move, repeated day after day until I stumbled upon it. I have no idea how long that message had been repeating, but I found it and I answered in kind, with a move of my own. Then it was “hello,” and the second move. We played for a week, and at first I treated it as just another cryptoquote, just another daily puzzle. I’d heard that Cryptoquotes and crossword puzzles help to prevent Alzheimer’s disease, and so I couldn’t open the newspaper without finishing the puzzles. Alzheimer’s disease is death before death, and I’m terrified of it. But this wasn’t just a cryptoquote. I soon found that it was magic, this secret correspondence, that I was falling in love with this unknown player. It was like writing letters to dead relatives, and having them answered. I came home from work on Friday night, and I felt like I was really coming home, for the first time since my wife passed on. I fell asleep without feeling as though my bed were half empty. I felt alive, solving those private puzzles. The following Monday the cipher changed. There were homophones, now, and nulls. Frequency analysis wasn’t enough. I worked harder to solve the puzzle, and once unearthed it was still chess moves, and little private messages. Fragments of messages, the thought never completed, each day the beginning of a new fragment. Monday was “I am pleased”, Tuesday “I was hoping you would”, Wednesday “there is so much to,” and Thursday “under my clothes I” The Monday after that, the move came in a more complicated form, modelled after a military code from World War Two. I could still solve it, (“your lips are so”) but it was harder. Already I could see where things were going. Already I could see the end of the line. And so on Tuesday I placed an ad in the paper, in the latest cipher. Not my next move, but “Please,” and “There’s only one end to this.” My life had been empty, and now I had this game. I was paralysed with the fear that it was going to advance beyond my means. What cipher would come next? If it was DES encryption, I could crack it with the help of a computer and some time. But then? After that I would be lost. I found I couldn’t sleep again, worrying. I knew that I should just enjoy the time I had left with this game, that I was ruining everything. The response came Wednesday, in monoalphabetic cipher. It was an opening move. An invitation to another player.
Another head hangs lowly, Child is slowly taken. And the violence caused such silence, Who are we mistaken?
But you see, it's not me, it's not my family. In your head, in your head they are fighting, With their tanks and their bombs, And their bombs and their guns. In your head, in your head, they are crying...
In your head, in your head, Zombie, zombie, zombie, Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head, In your head, Zombie, zombie, zombie? Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, dou, dou, dou, dou, dou...
Another mother's breakin', Heart is taking over. When the vi'lence causes silence, We must be mistaken.
It's the same old theme since nineteen-sixteen. In your head, in your head they're still fighting, With their tanks and their bombs, And their bombs and their guns. In your head, in your head, they are dying...
In your head, in your head, Zombie, zombie, zombie, Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head, In your head, Zombie, zombie, zombie? Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, oh, oh, Oh, oh, oh, oh, hey, oh, ya, ya-a...
My never is now. How soon is now? If my heart whitles like a flower destroyed by the rain, will the earth swallow my remains? My mind is sedate, beaten and broken by the thoughts that tear at me down. I hold my body, shivering, shaking...crying. Why do I hold onto the things that try their hardest to break away from me? Why cant I just let them go, let them fly away and be free as I wish to be? Billowing wolfs hunt down the ones I love. The ones I love are in me. The billowing wolfs hunt down me.
Ethan: Yeah. About how you often feel like you're observing your life from the perspective of an old women about to die. You remember that?
Julie: Yeah. I still feel that way sometimes; like i'm looking back on my life. Like my waking life is her memories.
Ethan: Mmm, exactly. I heard that Tim Leary said, as he was dying, that he was looking forward to the moment when his body was dead, but his brain was still alive - you know how they say that there's still 6-12 mins of brain activity after everything else has shut down?
Ethan: And a second of dream conciousness, right? Well, thats infinitly longer then a waking second. You know what I'm saying?
Julie: Oh yeah yeah yeah, definitely. For instance, I wake up and it's 10:12 and then I go back to sleep and I have those long, intricate, beautiful dreams that seem to last for hours and then I wake up and it's...10:13
Ethan: Yeah, exactly. So then 6-12 minutes, right? Of brain activity. I mean ... that could be your whole life. I mean you are that women looking back over everything.
Julie: Okay so what if I am? Then what would you be in all that?
Ethan: Whatever I am right now. I mean, maybe I only exist in your mind?"
I've been thinking. I know I have obsessive tendencies and that when I find something I like, I latch on. I always have to do this reflection or self evaluation. I hate to do this. It's this kind of looking back that makes me realize the things in me that have gone bad. Im not psychotic...I swear. I just have a bug that is inside me that heightens my emotions. A bug that makes me feel so intensly about everything. Usually I keep it under control...but when I get excited....
Ive now learned my lesson. I will retreat to my shell now. Dont forget to turn off the lights when you leave please.
I dont know if you ever look at this, but I dont think we should talk anymore. Its just my ego, but I'm feeling like a loser and I dont want to hurt myself more than I already have. Im sure you understand. I think I made it easier for you anyway. It was nice talking to you though.
The guy on my underwear box has a tiny scar on his elbow in the exact shape as mine, in the exact spot. I notice it as I'm getting dressed, and I shake Rachael awake. She groans and says, "What? What are you saying?"I'm wondering whether this is how you find your soul mate, with little hints, with this little shiver of recognition. "The exact shape." I say, "With a half-circle, just like mine," and I show her the box again. Her eyes are only half open, and she shakes her head. "There's something the matter with you," she says, and turns back to the pillow. She's naked in the bed, and she has a scar, too, just below her shoulder blade. It's ugly and straight, too perfect. I pull the blanket up to cover it, like I'm tucking her in, and she nuzzles into the pillow. I feel sick. I wonder if I let her stay because I like her, or because she likes me. I remember washing my hands again and again at three in the morning so I could get to sleep. At work I answer the telephone and I have my bag open at my feet so I can see the box inside. With underwear models, they always cut the picture off just above the chin, so you can't see their faces. It reminds me of pornography, and makes me uncomfortable in the same way. The customer on the phone is saying, "Hello? Hello?" and I wonder why they didn't airbrush the scar out. It's very small. Maybe they didn't notice. Maybe scars are sexy. The customer on the phone is angry now, and I talk for a bit about our dedication to customer service. I give him a telephone number that I make up off the top of my head. "Please don't give this number out," I say, "I could get fired just for telling you about it." His voice makes him sound like a priest, quiet and patient. I'm not sure why I'm saying this to him. Even though I want him off the phone, it's a risk. Everyone says that our boss randomly listens in on our calls. Everyone says he reads our email. The customer hangs up and again I think, maybe I was meant to see the scar. I reach into my bag and turn the box around to read the back. The name of the company is H. Best Ltd., and it says they're in NY, NY. Their secretary answers on the second ring, "His Best!" "I'm looking for some information," I tell the secretary. "I have a box of your company's underwear, serial number CA# 07043, and there is a picture of a man on the front of the box." It isn't long before he's apologizing, and I'm trying to describe the scar. I end up just saying, "He's got big arms," again and again. I end up repeating, "He's got nice skin." They won't let me know the name of the model. I guess that makes sense. I could be some sort of weirdo. I hang up and go wash my hands in the bathroom. On the way back, I stop by the water cooler and my boss walks by, watching me but not nodding, not saying anything. I remember that I have some vacation time saved up. Suddenly things seem okay.The train to New York is almost empty. I'm sitting in the dining car, and there's a boy of about twenty sitting three tables down. He has his headphones on and I can hear the static of drums as he scrapes the bottom of the soup bowl with his spoon. I want to ask him "Do you think this is crazy?" I want to show him the underwear box that's in the bag at my feet. That would be creepy, though. I want to pull up my sleeve and show him my scar. I want to say, "I've had it for as long as I can remember. I used to wear long sleeve shirts to hide it." I want to say, "Doesn't it have to mean something that he has the same scar? Isn't this some sort of sign?" I know he would say the right thing. Strangers always have the perfect answer. I move to a seat closer to his. I can't get rid of this feeling that I've all of a sudden become something else, something creepier than I thought I was. I move again, so that I'm in the seat just behind his. He has a tattoo on his neck, a line of words that I can't quite read. I think about the notebook I kept in college, filled with designs for tattoos. Swirling intentional mistakes that I planned on using to hide the confusing faded mystery of my scar. I would have, too, except girls started touching it and telling me they thought it was hot. The boy with the tattoo is named Cal, and he's headed home for his grandparent's fiftieth anniversary. The tattoo is just random words, he explains as I sit down across from him. There are dozens of them, in a block down his back. He can't even remember them all. Hammer. Quietly. Run. Verbs and nouns and adjectives. He runs his hand over his neck and says, "I'm just trying to make sure that I never forget." I put my bag on the table between us, and too late I realize that the underwear box is sticking out. Cal is staring at it, and I wonder if he even notices the scar. Girls never noticed it until we were lying in my bed, until it was morning and we were just staring at one another, confused. I push the box back into my bag, embarrassed all of a sudden. I pull the zipper closed and say, "So that you never forget what?" but Cal shakes his head, and gets up. "My girlfriend's waiting in the other car." he says, with emphasis on the word "girlfriend." I'm nodding already. "Mine too," I say, waving off to the side of the train, not forward or backwards. Rachael is probably in a bar somewhere, miles away, and "girlfriend" isn't a word either of us would use. She would probably laugh if I said it to her. It just comes out, maybe so the boy doesn't think I'm queer, but maybe because I think of her as my girlfriend after all. I watch him walk toward the next car, and he's still running his hand over his neck. I think it could be to remind himself that life is random, that nothing is perfect. It could be to prove that there's nothing you can do as a kid that is stupid enough to ruin your whole life. In New York, His Best Ltd. has an office in the tallest building I've ever seen, and the elevator ride takes forever. I try to make conversation with the woman next to me, and I say, "I'm here to visit an underwear company." She keeps looking forward. "I think one of their models is my soul mate," I say. She turns slowly and I smile as wide as I can. The secretary for His Best is a man with long hair. He says, "I believe everyone has a soul mate. I believe everyone has dozens of soul mates," I pull my shirt up to show him the scar, and he looks down at the underwear box I've given him, and he nods. He says, "Do you think your soul mate is going to be any better for you than what you've got now?" "Isn't that the point of a soul mate?" I say, and he laughs. "The world ends every time you fall in love," he says, and I'm starting to get nervous. "The world ends, and all of a sudden your journey is over. You're somewhere new, and it isn't long before you've adapted to your surroundings. It isn't long before you realize that something else is missing, before you're looking again." "I just want to know his name," I say, and he types on his computer for a while. "Human beings evolved to be constantly yearning," he says. "I can probably get you a date with him." He's looking up, smiling. "His name's Trent, and the contact number we have for him is an escort agency." My stomach turns a little, and I don't believe him. He's lying. But the secretary writes the name of the agency on a piece of paper. He stands up and comes around the desk to give it to me. "Is this a joke?" I say. I swing at him, certain that he's making fun of me, but miss. Things go bad. The secretary keeps my underwear box as two men in suits take me down in the elevator. The whole way down, I keep saying, "This is stealing. He has my underwear box. This is stealing." They lead me to the door, and I don't resist. They're very thin men. I'm afraid of them. In the end, I know that I can always buy a new underwear box. I put the escort agency number into my pocket. The nearest department store is huge. I've never seen so much space devoted to unmentionables. It's fifteen minutes before I find the box with his picture on it. I cover the scar on his elbow with the pad of my finger, and a voice comes over the public address system, murmuring, "Something something something Hanes brand something briefs something Thursday something only," and I realize that underwear models probably work for more than just the one company. It's a little switch in my head, and I'm looking around again. An hour later I have two stacks of boxes in front of me, one stack that I'm sure is him, and another which might be him if they airbrushed the scar out. He's worked for at least six other companies, maybe eleven, and I'm starting to feel good about my chances of finding him. I wonder if his name is really Trent. I wonder if he really is an escort. What would that mean? I wonder does he spend all his free time in a gym, in strangers’ beds? An employee comes over. He says, "Is there something I can help you with?" and I put two boxes in front of him. "Is this the same man?" I ask. "The scar is missing here, but look at the curve of his muscles. Look at this nipple. Isn't it the same nipple?" I put another box in his hands, my finger on the nipple, and he's not even looking at them. "These veins are the same, aren't they? Do you think this man does steroids?" I ask. "Do you think that sleeping with strangers for money damages someone? Could you love a whore?" He puts the boxes down on the closest shelf and actually steps back. "Let me know if you need help finding a size," he says. "Wait," I say. "Aren't soul mates supposed to be perfect? What if you find yours, and she's not a virgin, not even a girl? What if he's a fixer-upper? What if he has an STD?" but the employee's already walking away. I pick the boxes up and return them to their piles. I wander the aisles a while longer, trailing my fingers over the photographed bodies as I walk, nodding politely at other shoppers. On the way home I stand in the cold, watching men and women working out behind plate glass windows. They are all looking dead forward, not at one another, not at the banks of TVs. They are all looking into a future where they reach the goal, I guess, where they're good enough. Where their yearnings are satisfied. I think about Rachael, soft and disease free, and I wonder if there's anything that I would consider clean. At the hotel, I pick up the phone to call her, but don't.
I do believe in fate. I believe in it with my whole heart. I take everything as a sign. Everything happens for a reason.
But, other times I read too deeply into things and they don't turn out as they seem.
I know that unltimately, what I want will never happen. I will ALWAYS get what I least desire and it is because I think this that I will always get this.
However, I still believe in destiny...and love and alittle bit of romance. Im hopeful for myself. I hope I fall in love. I hope I will be able to have children. I hope I will be a good mother. I hope I will be a good wife.
Something tells me that everything will work out, and that I will be happy. I hope so.
When we say someone is beautiful what exactly do we mean? Are we talking about full lips and a high cheek bone, or spaced eyes and a sharp jaw line?
Everytime I open my mouth to profess someone else's beauty I wonder this. I dont know exaclty what makes them beautiful to me, or what makes me feel less beautiful than them. There is no standard that I knowingly hold, but there is something that always registers in my mind as "attractive" or "unattractive".
I know that it is only human nature for one to take a greater liking to beauty; things that are pleasing. I can't fight nature, i can't beat it. I'll try compromising. I will try my hardest to see everything as beautiful. God help me please, I want to see my self and others as something wonderful. Not just something visually vibrant but spiritually and intellectually as well. I want my mind to be beautiful, fruitful,....brilliant! I want to be able to recognize this in everyone else, not just myself. And I want them to know that I think they're beautiful.
Lets be brave hunnie. Don't cry. Hold it in please. I don't think I could take it if you let it all out again. If you punched a hole in the wall and bled until you fell alseep. It hurt didn't it? You could have broken something. I love you too much to let that happen. If we could just kiss the hand and make it all better again...
My dress is silent when I tread the ground. Or stay at home or stir upon the waters. Sometimes may trappings and the lofty air Raise me above the dwelling-place of men, And then the power of clouds carries me far Above the people; and my ornaments Loudly resound, send forth the melody And clearly sing, when I am not in touch With earth or water, but a flying spirit.
I took this trip to the Caribbean, in the fall of 2005. It was October 9th exactly, a late graduation present. I had never been outside the country before and was eager to go, though I wasn’t sure that going on vacation was the best decision for me to be making. I was already on rocky academic standing and was planning a week of doing extra credit. The trip was to be kind of a family reunion which I was completely uninterested in. Traveling with my family? They were a loud and obnoxious sort of bunch when gathered in one place. However, to please my grandmother, Yvonne, I tagged along. I prepared my-self of the mess I would have to clean up following my return. I knew I would have so much making up to do that I was completely pessimistic about my ability to relax and enjoy my stay on the cruise. The first stop was in Puerto Rico from O’Hare airport. From there we would take a boat; the Royal Caribbean cruise line to St. Thomas. Barbados, Antigua. St. Maarten. The first stop among the four was Antigua. It was a small island; 14 miles long and 11 wide. When approaching it from the south, which we were, you could see its highest point; Boggy Peak. It was covered in green, which made the air seem thinner, crisper. There was a wonderful musk about the place that felt so welcoming. It was beautiful. The first night there was an enjoyable one. After we settled into our cabins, which, my mother, two younger sisters and I shared, only added to my anxiety and annoyance. There was a festival in the corridor. It was vibrant in color and sound. A band located in the corner played and upbeat tune. I stood there listening to the blend of percussion instruments. I recognized each of them; drums, bells, shakers. It was a unique musical style with special tempo setting rhythms. They played with claves and when coupled with bells they produced multilayered and weak beats that were so soothing. The ship was alive. They were so many people gathered down the hall, all with huge grins on their faces, enjoying their first night aboard the Royal Caribbean. I looked around to see everyone dancing. I did a bit of a “jig” myself. I felt like part of the show, which was sort of a never ending parade down the long foyer. It was supposed to be a taste test of what we were to expect entertainment wise from the cruise. I watched in awe as two men danced together on stilts. They jumped and did splits in the air all while holding each others hand. I was entertained. Every now and then I would let a smile of pure admiration and amazement creep across my face, exposing the teeth I’ve always worked at to hide. The mere fact that I was slightly amused suggested the trip would not be as horrible as I might have thought. I went to bed that night with decorated men on stilts (my favorite part of the show) dancing in my head. I woke up late the next day, exhausted from the excitement of the night. My mother and two sisters had already left for the day and decided not to wake me, which I was so grateful of. With a heavy foot I climbed out of my cot and made my way for the bathroom. It was mid afternoon (too late for me to grab breakfast, my favorite meal of the day) and I could already feel the evening getting started under my feet. There must have been another festival going on because the boat was jumping with excitement. I could feel the beat of the drums being played from where ever on the boat as I brushed my teeth.. I unconsciously put a bit of “pep” in my step. I spent the entire day by myself, unable to find the rest of my family. I was dressed in my most comfortable; a loose fitting blue tank embroidered in “diamonds” that were centered in the middle forming the words “Super Star” across the chest, knee length shorts (I forget what color) and a yellow sarong hid my robust bottom. I walked leisurely around the deck of the ship. I thought about every step I took, making sure not to trip. The boat had a comfortable way in which it rocked. I soon adapted a natural sway, which, in union with the boats rock had me walking straight again. It was the afternoon and the boat was docked in Antigua so there were not many people aboard. This left me with short lines to wait in and only the best of service from the attendants. I spent some time swimming, letting the salt water crushes take over me. I floated on my back, day dreaming. I couldn’t wait to see what spectacular the cruise would turn into at night once again. The water felt warm on my skin. Some instances I forgot that I was even in water. It was the easiest swim I had ever taken. In the evening I caught up with my sister. We sat in a café located down the main hall of the ship and swapped stories of our adventures of the day. I was having a slice of strawberry cheese cake and she a cup of peppermint tea. I was so enjoying our conversation but could not help wandering off as she explained to me how advanced their exercise facilities were. The hall was such an amazing place to gaze at. Up the walls was renaissance art, some familiar to me, some not. Big colorful dots were seemingly placed randomly on the floor, but when looked at from a distance made up the most fascinating of patterns. The ceilings were covered in bright round neon lights that shook simultaneously to what ever music was playing in background. There were statues of can can dancers, butlers, cowboys and astronauts lining the hall. It was the epitome of eye candy, a stimulus overload. Some might have called it gaudy and in a way it was, but there was something about it that was also pleasing. I drifted in and out of the conversation with my sister. I could tell it didn’t bother her that I was barely paying attention. She was so wrapped up in her own story that it didn’t matter if I was there or not. After her ramblings we strolled around until we found ourselves in a piano bar. This was where we to spend our evenings from then on every night on the boat. We sat there at the piano, giggling like little girls as we watched the piano man wince at the requests we had scribbled on napkins and passed to him. He was a young British man who we quickly grew fond of. We were at his piano the same time every night. We thought he might have been annoyed, but he never grew weary of our company. He even expressed that he enjoyed the challenge of our requests. We would sing the tunes for him as he played along to a song he had never heard. He was quite talented. He played everyone from Charlie Baker, to Stevie Wonder, to John Lennon and Elton John and the Beach Boys. We had the most wonderful time there with him. One night, after an exhausting list of requests my sister and I stumbled out onto the deck of the rocking boat. The air was so cool and crisp. There were few people out so it was quiet and we could hear the ocean crashing beneath us. We began to walk straight towards the bow. The walk was surprisingly long and we were winded be the time we reached the front of the boat. What we experienced there however was the most amazing thing.. Before reaching it we walked through a door way. Right between there seemed to be a vacuum that pulled at us towards the bow. We passed through it and were hurried along a board walk that brought us to a set of stairs. After climbing them we realized that we were no longer protected by a covering of the ship and were completely exposed to the sky. I was shocked at its enormity. It was so massive and black that it made me shake with fear. I don’t know why it was so different seeing the sky while on land than it was on a boat but I definitely felt it. I was overwhelmed with emotion. The air was just thick enough and just thin enough. It had a wonderful musk to it; sweet and so soft. It was perfect up there. I felt as though the sky was going to swallow me up. I looked to my left and saw the moon shining. It seemed so close that night; gorgeous. My sister grabbed my hand and began to weep. I knew that it was the most beautiful thing she had every seen as well. I brought her in closer to me. It was like something out of a movie. With her arms now wrapped around my waist and mine around her shoulders, chin placed on the crown of her head we rocked slowly to the dance of the boat.
This concept was mentioned in a movie I saw once. It was described as an instance where you suddenly become aware of the beautiful things that surround you. This is what I understood of it at least. I do that sometimes, make myself aware of everything around me and let me say, it is when I am doing this that I have the most intense feelings I have ever had in my entire life. I stand they, soaking up the sun...feeling it warm on my skin, also shivering from the slight chill on the back of my neck. I am outside standing by the pond by the art building on campus. I know its easy to beware of how beautiful nature is, but this was something different. My senses were intensified and I could see so much more about the picture in front of me. Nature always makes me cry, in that way this time was no different from the others. The wind was singing and the water was vibrant in color in some way. I saw reds, blues, yellows, and greens...
It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I don't know if this was having a holy moment, but, I sure was weeping and felt absolutely amazing afterward. My heart was full of so much appreciation. I do this often now after that moment. I feel silly, but, I admire everything. Everything seems like a miracle...and it is.
You don't know how many drafts of this email Ive written. I just counted and i must admit, its kinda embarrassing. I'm not gonna start off by saying sorry for taking so long to write this. It is only now that Ive dug through some of the things that have been holding me back in my life that allows me to say this to you. Its nothing serious really, just me rambling as usual. i only hope that you have to strength to read my words because after so long you've probably forgotten who i am.
I'm Jessica Stoudmire. I wrote to you more than a year ago asking you to be my friend. Yes, although our relationship was mostly sustained through email it helped me in so many ways. ways in which you will never know. I looked forward to seeing you every day. I know, just like everyone else, I felt out of place, unwanted. I was just so lucky to stumble across you Mr. Vandervelde. I dunno, maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing, but it doesn't feel like that. You don't know...you were my only friend at t.f. south, and i thanked god every night that he let me know you. you are not at all bitter, or a loser. You talked to me about whatever i wanted. you were clever, witty, funny, smart....hehe ( they all mean the same thing don't they?) You were so entertaining when you didn't have to be.
I honestly wrote you that letter that one day after seeing the boy with the van shoes in gym class a week before. I noticed He sat there quietly as his friends goofed off. He would laugh occasionally and might have commented a few times, but often, he was in his own world, a world I wish I could have been in. Don't worry, this wasn't a stalker sort of thing, lol. I was just so depressed, sick, and unbelievably hurt that year for some reason and you stuck out. You were the first person I wanted to know that year. I'm glad I got my chance to experience a part of you, no matter how small of a part it was. You don't realize, you saved my life that year Steve. You gave me something to look forward to each day. Thank you so much.
I have to tell you that I grew to care about you so intensely. I think I got it confused romantically, but trust me, it wasn't love. Just a genuine care for someone who wasn't family. It felt so good. Thank you for your kindness. Ive been working so hard all year with someone who has helped me say these thanks to you and it feels so good to finally get it out.
If this email has made you uncomfortable in any way please don't worry about writing back. I am prepaired to never hear from you again. I think it was more for me than you anyway, haha.
My heart goes out to the ones who listen to him the ones who put so much of their faith in him. I wish I was in that place. That secret place, where only you can hear him. I pretend it's not him sometimes. I say "hello self, you know you shouldn't do that." Why do I pretend? Why cant I be brave? Im so scared I'll disappoint him More so...myslef Sometimes I think I love myself more than I love him Sometimes I feel obligated to love him Because after all...He's the one keeping me from that bad place:(
last thursday i got hit by a truck. it was 11:22 at night, i was crossing the street on my way from the deli when WAM it hit me. i had forgotten to pick up the bread. i was in the middle of the street when i turned to get it. i didnt even see the MAC truck as i stepped into the "empty" lane. it hit me. it hit me hard. i lay there on the ground, choking on my teeth, sniffing my blood. he sped away. thats when i died.
1 4 or 5 pound chicken, cut into pieces 1-inch piece ginger 1 medium clove garlic 1 large onion butter 1 teaspoon turmeric (curuma longa) 1 teaspoon cumin seed 2-inch piece of cinnamon 4 cloves crushed red pepper to taste 2 caradomoms 1 teaspoon salt 5 large tomatoes, skinned and cut into small pieces 1 tablespoon molasses
A moth ate words; a marvellous event I thought it when I heard about that wonder, A worm had swallowed some man's lay, a thief In darkness had consumed the mighty saying With its foundation firm. The theif was not One whit the wiser when he ate those words.