Revamping this whole blog.
Perhaps I will write about writing?

Nothing :O

VERY rough, from line by line.  Mature themes. Critique?

( Another man's hair wrapped in her fist. )

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
The Eye by V-Dawg Nobakov
Slapstick by Kurt Vonnegut
Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett
A Heartbreaking Word of Staggering Genius - Dave Eggers

Off the top of my head.
Now I'm going to do homework.

One day,
Mitchell and I counted 103 hipsters in our Valentine's day date in NYC. We blew bubbles in the belvedere and the various languid avenues of the park. We lay under the whale in the natural history museum until a guard told us to get up. We mixed macaroni and cheese with chicken nuggets, which was epic. That night we played manhunt in my friend Pan's backyard, ran about, tripped, scraped our selves. Mitchell refused to be captured, they had four people pulling him back to jail. We sat around a fire and sang Beatles songs; my head was in the curve of his neck.

Another day,
We saw Enter Laughing in the York Theater. The actors were amazing. It was me, Ave, and Mitchell. I cry when I laugh, generally, at least when I laugh hard. I was crying so hard Mitchell was almost worried. Some lady turned around and shushed us. We ran back to grand central but missed our train. The only store open was a bakery; it was after midnight. We ate rich chocolate Valentines Day cake with our hands. Mitchell fell asleep on my shoulder while I was talking about victorian hats.

Some-other day,
Mitchell and I walked around Rockafeller with my parents. We threw ice into a pond. We saw a goose sitting on ice for over ten minutes and were pretty sure it was frozen there. We went back home and built a fort in my basement, connecting blankets to support poles, the pool table, the couch, ect. We dragged the tv in. We were going to watch a Japanese horror movie, but instead decided on "The Orphanage" a spanish horror that appeared sufficiently cheesy. Don't watch it. It was cheesy, but not very scary. It tried very hard to be a 'psychological thriller'. Our entertainment was of course saved by the entrance of Avery, who cramped up the fort, farted a lot, knocked over a glass of water and tore down most of the essential blankets. We replied to all the lines -- "WELL EXCUUUUSE ME, PRINCESS!" and "MY BOY!" and such. For some reason, every time Mitchell and Avery interact, I learn of some new inane internet meme. Avery went to bed, the two of us talked till midnight.

My best friend.

It was a couch. We didn't take it home, (though not for lack of trying.) I'd seen you for the first time in three months. I was adorned an old knit had from my aunt, purple and blue and fraying and discombobulated. My mother said it made look like an elf. You laughed and whispered - you look like a druggy. I laughed. After three months, your hands were very warm.

We went to the candy store and bought a pound of black liquorish, coiled like a snake. Then the toy store. Temporary tattoos of dinosaurs - we found someone's bathroom and cut them into pieces, glued the triceratop's head on the vollasa raptor's body, silly things like that. Your arm, my arm, you neck, right above my breast. Kissing in little ripples and streams. Fingers interlaced. Also: bubbles. It was November. We ran outside laughing. Wearing teeshirts of the Who and a panda.

It was in the alley. It was green and pink candy stripes. Victorian. Cherrywood. New Upholstery. I turned to you with bright eyes. - Let's adopt it!
- Adopt it?
- Adopt it! We must!

The couch sat like a princess in the gutter, the orphaned sole daughter of some esteemed whitemansburden explorer, furs and muffs a-heaped. Pampered and soiled. Ripped Silk. Yes. We must adopt it. Smash it to pieces in my back yard. Burn it's spindle, spoiled fingers. It's little manicured claws. We would go at it with fireaxes. Yes, what a lovely, lovely couch! Performance art or somesuch. I was not going to see you again for another three months. We lived in seasons. Summer is the only one I owned. Borrowed time. November is forgiving.

***

So, I got a job. >_> This is weird. It's only for a week. I'm wrapping brownies for the Obamanaguration. Can't wait to here his speech! He is a ridiculously good speaker. I wish I was going. :( Still, what's up with Rahm Emmanuel? XD

Plus, rereading Ulysses! Such a good book! :D Why is Buck a diminutive of Malachi? And Kinch a nickname for Stephen?? Oh you silly angry atheist Irish, you. Joyce, you silly.

And Dave Eggers is really good. Read "A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius" and it was phenomenal. I'm getting "What is the What" from the Library soon too! :D I'm so addicted to McSweeney's, I have to check the website once a day. >_< Plus, I really wish our library was subscribed to The Believer. Maybe I'll ask them about that. Can you recommend to be subscribed?

My Friend Lives In The House Where The Bruises Come

( these rough unmannered things. )
Thoughts? :)

~Outline~

Introductory Paragraph
Thesis: Does getting "Hopeless Romantic" On One Facebook *OMG wHAT's yOUr LOVESTYEL!!!* quiz and then "Too Logical and Cold* on another mean I'm screwed up, the quizzes or screwed up, or I've been procrastinating so long on my AP Environmental lab that it's actually warped my brain?
( Body Paragraphs 1 - 7: Proof by Contradiction, Proof by Evidence, Proof by the Bible, Proof by Right Angles, Proof by Heinz Ketchup and Proof by Proof. )

In Conclusion: The air is cold. Venus and Neptune, both, in the south at the cusp of sunset. We see them bright on our breath. I miss your fingers, longboned and low.

When the day grows dark and cold I get some hot chocolate, a fire, a book, a cat - talk on the phone for hours, lying on my back. I write. I fall asleep earlier. 

I'm going to submit to an actual writing journal.
Today.
Right now.


I'm terrified.
Oh well. 
Here I go!

 So the way you don't help yourself fall asleep is to read the entirety of American Psycho at three in the morning and end up shivering in a corner freaked out by the idea of female genital mutilation . . .
It was a good book, otherwise. But still. Not a good idea. 
Last night was the first time all week I got a full night of sleep. We went to a lovely Brazilian restaurant where I got a steak in wine sauce with a fried egg on top (!?) and then to the Met Opera in Carnegie and saw Don Giovanni. We didn't get back from the city until 1:56, but I slept until twelve. It's a really fun opera, but this direction wasn't so good. The down to hell scene was really anticlimactic, as was the graveyard scene.  Leparello (sp?) was definitely my favorite character, though Donna Elvira was excellent, and you can't help but adore Don Giovanni also . . . the three of them were my favorites. If they'd just had them bounce off eachother and left out the whole 'soprano dying from grief' standard I would have liked it better. Some of the arias were blech. Plus, they tacked on the scene after Don Giovanni is dragged down to hell, which most productions leave out.
I'm still majorly blocked and I don't know how to fix it. Earl is, as usual, brutally honest with my work, and the fact that I know my work is suffering makes my writing even worse . . . maybe I need more challenges - more time, actually. I have a really busy schedule suddenly, and most of my free time I spend talking to M. Hell . . . not that I'm complaining. :3 The only time I write anything nearly decent is after talking to him. 
BTW I didn't come up with that nickname - his writing mentor did. I found it just stupid enough to keep. XD
Speaking of which, I'm supposed to do my AP Environmental now . . . aur revoir then, fair world. I think the next book I want to read is "A Family's Daughter" which I've been told is good, and "Dubliners" which I've started online but want a full copy of . . . I used to dislike Joyce's stories, but over the summer I grew to quite like him.

More writing. From Linebyline again. 
Challenges are what inspire me, recently. I need a push in my work. Earl (writing teacher) slammed all the stuff I'd done over the summer, and it sort of made me depressed . . . I need more inspiration. If anyone knows a good prompt community, please recommend it to me!


Take my Tears

Take my tears you bluefaced giant
Take my tears, you bullish stare
Take my tears you boy - you boy!
           That time I cried in the orchestra closet, the smell of rosin, how soft the violins' cherrywood
You never knew that!
           Or in the back field, harvest moon and overcast eyes, the grass so long from where I lay
You never knew that!
           Under the docks, outside your room, the bruises, the lovebite said was a scrape, the afterguilt
You never knew any of that!
Take my tears, the blue bra in the trunk of your car, the two snickers bars melting on my dresser -
Take all of that! They are all that is here for you.

Decided to start posting the poems I put in communities also on my journal.
This is from the linebyline challange.

Family Greenery

My daughter, she's greenbacked
where moss and vines overtwisted
stubborn and immobile, I swear
not from my side of the family.
Not mine. She's turned a shade of pine
Once she was my sundaughter
Now something looms above
horizon, she's got

got a problem with that
blueeyed beacheyed boy I'd -
I'd told her, stay away, my yellow stripe
my fragile child, stay away from thorns
my butterpat buttercup butterfly
He's too dark for you, dearest
He's an ocean too deep to probe
so cold, you'll drown dearest, drown
dark drowned dearest.

Didn't my old woman pull the same tricks?
Condescending runs in my genes
We run in circles. A forest of greens.
Maybe this is just another everyday
colorful case, mother-daughter rebellion
I just wish she wouldn't - that I didn't
run away again.

I miss summer.

Actually, I've thought of something else.
Live life in whatever persona I wish, go through a variety of silly characters, fake my own death numerous times in entertaining circumstances, and all over continue living life though it were one lovely joke.

I'd fill up my bag and my summerborn shoes and walk the world to find you.
And after you died I'd fill my bag again and my wellworn shoes and walk back.
And then there is no more.

Random stupid poetry.

Discover instantaneous teleportation? Hah. These writers blocks are kind of silly sometimes. WALK!

When I was ten I would see water where there was none, on empty roads, pavement shimmers and there's an ocean. I used to see the heatwaves turn to a sea, lapping around the cars before us, water that splashed and flowed and darted off when drew to close. You're alive still, but I see you out of the corner of my eye sometimes. Your slouch. Your laugh. Your eyes. Sometimes the stones on the path before me would fly up on there own, or what I thought was a smooth white skipping stone would be a little moth, just as fragile, just as frightened. Asking me to believe in ghosts is impossible. That is like asking me to believe in ScoobyDoo and Ghost Busters and some old woman in a white dress trapsing about our old house. No, never that. I believe our minds are so complex no one could ever figure them out, that even if these are tricks of the light, missing you, they are just as supernatural, mysterious. Why do the ghosts have to be on the outside world? Much creepier inside our heads, I think. A better story.