I received a book of Anne Sexton's poetry in the mail today. The return address was DV, but there was no note or name attached to the book. hmm... I have my suspicions who it's from. There's only a couple of people who know how I feel about Anne.
Cranny's going to kill me if I call him late to sing one more time. I can't help it, the creative block I've had for months is crumbling. This is good for painting and songwriting, but hell for my grades. My A's are all crumbling, too. A 69 in French.. Mon Dieu! I'm sure i can drag it up to a B, do colleges really care at this point? As long as I don't pull an Alex I'll be fine. God. I find out in a month. I'm not gonna think about it.
At least I have art to fall back on... since I put stuff up at Nellie's I've had 6 offers to buy stuff and 2 of the local galleries want to book me. That's pretty cool.
This has been a pretty good February. I spend a lot of time with Gen and Jen and Jay at the tattoo shop. And too much time at the Venture with Caitlin and Jen. Ahh well. There's worse ways to spend your weekends than dancing to Gogol Bordello in a bar where you and your friends are the only people with full sets of teeth.
Shooting the portfolio, the Film Fest, the bear auction, SATs, Homecoming, the party at Pheonix, work Fri+Sun, Cranny, Jess, finishing college essays, painting Errol.
I love how usually there's never a damn (fun) thing to do around here, and how everything just crams itself up into 1 weekend.
Just got home from the city, and I feel so dirty. I always feel like I've rolled on the subway floor by the time I make the trek from 82nd and 1st to the 6, down to Grand Central, switch to the shuttle to Times Square, then the 1 down to Penn, then to Secaucus, then to Port Jervis. All while carrying a laptop and two bags, which after an hour, hurts like a bitch. But it was worth it. I finally treated my mom to a nice night in the city--I paid for tickets and dinner. She works at the Real Estate office in town, and has been bummed out she no longer has weekends free. Because I took pictures for MIDDLETOWN CLASS OF 76 (!!!) (obnoxious assholes) I actually had a bit of cash to burn (though instead of a tip they gave me a bottle of wine--I did not complain). After dinner I dropped mom off at home and made Dom and Riggi come visit me. Those boys are a handful, but I love 'em. We wanted to go to the Italian Day/John Lennon's Birthday parade, but we slept in instead. I'm really pissed I had to work and miss Eric's goodbye party. It sounded like a good time. >>Is anyone else going to see MSI on Halloween? I'm thinking about going with Scott, but I don't know him too well, so a buddy would be nice.
***Note to Cranny: Did you pierce your eyebrow?!
In other, scarier news: WildPikey: yeah, i saw this great korean horror flick WildPikey: it was fantastic poeticstripper: ahh, korea is a horric flick as of late, isn't it?
I need to learn to curb my procrastinating ways, I need to get to bed before 2 just once. But I know that will never happen.
+ --Mr Robbins told a kid to roast in hell today under his breath (for handing in a S+W paper in late) hahahaha --I'm finally getting my portfolio together. Finally--I'm almost ready to apply. The world's going to be a calmer place once that's out of the way. --Cranny. Coming home.
- --Eric leaving soon. I don't even know what the hell I am going to do without seeing that kid at least every other day. It's absofuckinglutley unthinkable, he and Errol are my only sources for girltalk and open mic bongo favorites. --Falling asleep every day 6th period. --Calculus.
HOLY SHIT PEACHES IS PLAYING AT IRVING PLAZA IN NOVEMBER but tickets arn't on sale yet!! Ahhh!!
Who's coming with me? Who?!
I know Eric is.
We caught the raccoon! My dad was ready to shoot it but I convinced him to let it loose a few miles away, bad thing is though, the bugger might be back. Ugh.
The harder I study, the more detached I feel from my body. I'm a mess everyday, I look terrible. When I try to relax and have a good time I just feel awkward and unattractive. All I can think about is how much work waits for me at home. Maybe this is 3 weeks of little sleep talking, but I only feel content when I'm lost in a book or a project. And when I'm watching Project Runway. If you tried to kiss me I'd taste like textbook.
Working on the bear, rafting with friends. Brown was great. On my own again-- found out the ex was cheating on me literally from day 1. So I'm alone, and it's bittersweet. I got hurt this last time around, real bad, but I learned you can't save anyone who isn't willing to save themselves. I also despise heroin and credit it to sucking the soul out of a lot of cool kids. Anyhow, I'm looking at schools right now and starting to get my act together for the whole higher education thing. I'm mostly applying to city schools. hey man, nyc will always be home. I'm in the city a lot... I saw CoCoRosie the other night in Williamsburg and it was breathtaking. I met Bianca after the show and she was a total bitch, it was great. Jim took me to a classical piano concert the other night, afterwords we went to the pianist's apartment for wine and cheese. Lots of anti-social Russians. I am a master at the trains now. I never thought I would be.
because they make me happy, not because they make anyone else happy Prom was a blast. Kendall was the perfect gentleman. I danced almost every dance. CJ is everything I want in a boy right now, I lost my taste for excess partying. I volunteer during the weekends now. I go for a run, afterwards I lay on the grass and listen to music. Then I see my boyfriend. It's quiet, it's comfortable. I spent $50 on used books today and $50 on music. Well worth it. I still get sad but it's easier to snap out of it. I've been writing more. Mr. Robbins is convincing me to turn my life that way. Maybe I will. I still don't feel pretty, but I'm starting to care less. I like the grass between my toes, I like learning new things, I like being nice to old ladies.
I learned in physics why sunsets are so bright, and the science has done nothing to diminish the beauty.
Yesterday I made my movie debut in a project from a swell St. John's fellow named Joe. He said I did very well and asked if he could use me in his next movie. I dig it. I also chilled with my new group of twentysomething friends with Matt and Ash and it was a very lovely, chilled time. Today I am off to go meet the photography editor of Traveler Magazine at an Easter Party. That is my spring break.
Had a last night out with Dana and her friendly friends, Matt tagged along. It was interesting. I hate when boys ask you if they can kiss you. What the fuck is up with that, I'm so sick of wimpy boys.
Too bad the one I really like is a complete asshole AND a wimp. Wait.. I like two guys like that.
tschopzilla (10:48:16 PM): were you involved with the driveby firecrackering that occurred at amanda's house? tschopzilla (10:49:16 PM): this suv-type vehicle drove by and threw a firecracker out the window...and then came back the other way and threw another one like 10 mins later tschopzilla (10:49:25 PM): we were in sara shatt's car old ships at sea (10:50:05 PM): bottlerockets old ships at sea (10:50:06 PM): actually
Shatty, Ewart, Eric, and Ash, a car of truth, a hookah, and some rockets. Need I say more?
I think I need to stop being a bitch and actually return some of his phone calls/e-mails
I wish I could take genuine interest in a boy, I keep doing this. I keep bitching that I'm ugly and that no boys like me, and then when one likes me, I run away as fast as I can and cry "AHH IT DISTRACTS ME FROM MY SCHOOOOOLWORK" and then get lonely and stalk a new ( one. )
I stared at the numbers on her bony arm, in plain sight as she reached out and begged for alms. Branded—had I stumbled upon a neglected treasure, a woman who had survived the holocaust and the streets of Paris? I resisted my mother’s tugs to rush through the crowd of tourists, twisting to glace at the woman, this morning’s enthusiasm at seeing Sacre Coeur subdued. Those haunting black numbers corrupted the colorful, manicure gardens surrounding the ivory monument. As my mother and I intruded upon the Sunday service with hundreds of other loud Americans with fanny packs, I felt embarrassed, for a multitude of reasons. First, I felt rude barging in on a holy service, snapping pictures while resentful Frenchmen attempted to pray. I felt unimportant and unholy staring, neck strained, at the breathtaking ceilings that arched and shined over my head. My staccato English grit against my ears like sand as it cut through the rhythmic Latin of the priest, asking my mother questions about saints. These feelings were trivial to the stone the small gypsy had placed in my stomach. My mother and I had been staying in hotels under the safety of her maiden name, Schettino. Even four years ago, before American newspapers began printing articles about burnt synagogues and anti-Semitic riots, my mother had known it would not be wise to be “Segal” in France. Not then, not now, and especially not during World War II. I felt infuriated, with the world, with myself. That woman sat, emaciated, ragged, and spurned—had nothing changed since the holocaust? And here I was, with my expensive camera, hiding under a Roman Catholic surname that wasn’t my own, hiding under these massive, immaculate arches in a church I didn’t belong in. Had that woman survived her brands for nothing, was the faith millions had perished for meeting its true adversary, not a cruel inquisitor or a helmeted fascist, but apathy within its latest generation? These thoughts simmered in the back of my mind as I made my way past artists selling pocket-size souvenirs and past cafes teaming with foreigners. By late afternoon my mother and I were taxed, we retraced our steps back to the hotel. As we neared the gypsy woman I dug into my pockets for Euros and braced myself. She cried out something to me in French, I stared into her heavily lined face, so warped by age and weather it was impossible to judge how old she really was. Her arm, incited by the sight of the money in my fist, strained towards me and my eyes shot to the monstrous tattoo. I noticed the numbers weren’t uniform. Was it a flaw in the Nazi’s cold, perfect system, a mutation by age, or a heartless scam. A new anger boiled inside me. I still pitied the woman, but this time it was a pity for the depraved soul that was hungry enough to swindle a few coins out of gullible tourists, like me, by painting an expert row of black digits. I coldly tossed a couple of coins in her cup, maybe I was wrong, or maybe I respected the cleverness behind the knarred gypsy’s scheme. Everyone must survive something, mustn‘t they? The image of that bent woman, shrouded in black, a leathery, lined complexion taking refuge behind the piles, stayed with me long after the glittering domes of Sacre Coeur were remembered only in photograph. When I think of her deathlike arm ominously creeping from its folds to tourists with hundreds of dollars worth of souvenirs in their shopping bags, I wonder what it must feel like to calmly paint a row of numbers, with a steady hand each morning, spiting an entire race of people, not knowing if there will be enough bread in the evening.
Well your faith was strong, but you needed proof You saw her bathing on the roof Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew ya And she tied you to her kitchen chair And she broke your throne, and she cut your hair And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah Hallelujah, hallelujah, Hallelujah, hallelujah
Well baby I've been here before I've seen this room and I've walked this floor, you know, I used to live alone before I knew ya And I've seen your flag on the marble arch And love is not a victory march It's a cold, it's a broken Hallelujah
So Matt just showed up here yesterday, and I just got a call from Joshua and Eric that they're randomly coming over. This is why I am officially one of the boys.
I was about to chop all my hair off when Ken and Josh arrived. We smashed things with hammers and smoked hookah and when they left I finished the hookah with my mom. I hope it really wasn't opium, hahaha. I burn a hole in the carpet, messy embers. Today was the last day of the PSSAs. Saturday is SAT day and Sunday is Gov school audition. I shouldn't do any drugs for the rest of the week. I stole a copy of the Communist Manifesto from the school and lost my Music Man script, I am bad. Today Tschop and I drank Ginger Peace tea, and the I walked home to the sweet sounds of Jeff Buckley. Josh is sleeping over tomorrow, we are going to do arts and crafts. I am going to watch a movie about Catherine II now, and maybe work up the balls again to cut my hair (probably not) goodnight.
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pazzesco_bella
studious
groggy
lazy
excited
exhausted
crazy