In London, Me And The French Existentialists

Sunday.

No, I do not want to go to your party today.

Just thought I'd tell you.

See you Wednesday. But I don't plan on talking.

In Brussels, Clean-Cut Hostels

Saturday.

Just a tepid petite update.

(Isn't it odd how the human language was organized in such a way that the two words--tepid and petite--could not be merged into a space-length radius without at least a smithereen of muddle-tom. Yes, it is odd because in my opinion those two words just both call to mind the sweetest of pinks and beiges that would go divinely together. But, alas. The two lovers were separated by their definitions! Never... to be... united... under human power.)

Just slight. Here:

I was Lucy. No, not Ms. In-The-Sky-With-Diamonds. Lucy from "Death by Landscape."

I felt like I had entered the picture. Just there, you could find me behind the tree behind the tree behind the tree behind the ones that are actually visible. How I wish I were a painter. I could paint people without even painting them. You don't have to paint them for them to be alive. They can just be there, living behind your painting. Creations need life after life. Why should we be granted so much?

And no, this is not just post-fever talk.

Tomorrow is a very odd day. Not odd, no. Just... cyclical in a way. One year passing from each memory that is all too stark and sudden. It seems surreal now. Like none of it ever occurred in the first place. I find myself doubting the past when I ask myself, "What was I doing at this moment one year ago?"

In Barcelona, Buenos Dias

(Chocolate, le Picasso).

Thursday.

Swine flu is just wonderful, you know?

In Amsterdam, I Got Quite Crazy

(Might have been all those tulips and canals.

Might have been all that hash).

The one day I can play in the snow, I cannot.

Alas. You stupid flu. Why did you have to arrive in such an unreasonable stint of weeks? Mmm. Yes. This is quite the setback. Given the 7 page paper I must write tonight, I am not affable at the present moment.

Not affable one iota.

But at least the snow is dazzling... It's like white gold (or silver... Really, white gold is just silver. Just say it.) falling in pretty little blankets and horses from the white silver clouds. Me gustaria hacer un hombre de nieve... Pero, que lastima. No pude. Hmm.

Wuah, wuah!

So, yes. My Bucket List. I must commence!

So I'll add a couple arbitrary and unfiled thoughts right now:

1) Buy a farm in Arizona, where nothing can grow and nothing can die.

2) Spend a day outside and by myself. Doing nothing.

3) Spend another day going wherever it pleases the eye. The world is immense, why should I be contained to one city?

4) Be valedictorian. (Haha, you-know-who). *Insert a smiley here, although they are against my technological literary belief system*

5) Play "Toothpaste Kisses" for my husband.

6) Sing a capella... Preferably Regina Spektor. I'm thinking "Aching to Pupate" or "I Want to Sing."

7) Forget how to frown.

8) Remember how to laugh and never forget it again.

9) Write a play. Or two.

10) On impulse, buy the stupidest infomercial item at 3 am.

11) Pull an all-nighter.

12) Never become rich.

13) Sing and play guitar on the side of the road. See how many tips I get!

Hmm, well I'm in pretty bad condition right now. Fever... Ewh.

So, I'll write more later.

'Til then, I must begin on my paper! Tootaloo.

In Mont-pier I Stayed In A Chateau

(A boy climbed into my bed and he knew no boundaries).

Monday.

Apparently I have a follower. My sole follower. If you would please comment on this post and inform me as to why you are following my blog, it would be much appreciated. Just an expatiation of the mind. Mind me.

The days are progressively moving yet I am progressively not. It's an odd feeling. It's almost as if I can see myself, the soul dislodged halfway across the room and looking on with desperation. Odd, yes. I am reviving my nostalgia and opening windows. Every time I feel that damned breeze, I can swear that it's summer. Summer, summer. Oh, my summers.
It's the kind of dull pang I can't quite put words to. It'd be like trying to tell poetry with a piano; they are both beautifully tragic, but in their own separate ways.

Oh, Marcello... How I wonder...

How I wonder... Wonder and wander and ponder.

Stupid. I'm as Faust, I can't satiate the need for knowledge. For thought. I'm running painfully dry, and my arid throat needs something. Someone tell me something I can digest. Someone... Does anyone really have conversations these days? We were placed pitifully on a pitiful earth. Given love. Misusing love and having babies and babies that are related and halfrelated to babies and babies. Generation after generation, and we still don't know what we're doing?

It's all we talk about.

So, on a lighter note.. I'm collating a Bucket List.

It Made Me Miss My Moscow Mother

(It made me miss my New York muttdom).

Sunday.

Another week rears its feisty head. Or wags its ever-in-motion tail.

It's called dogification.

The literary technique of applying dog-like characteristics to a person, place, object, or any other of the sort that is not, I repeat: NOT, a dog.

Yes, I'm odd.

Yes, I'm doing my lab report now. My choice, my consensus.

Yes, I'm listening to French music and pretending to understand it.

No, I am not crazy yet. But I'm slowly getting to that lovely destination. Trains need to carry on, yes? No. Yes. I don't know. How am I supposed to know?

I've got nothing to say, yet I'm speaking continuously.

So maybe once I've accumulated "worthy" speech, I'll share it.

Goodmorning, goodmorning.

In Prague, I Knew I'd Been A Witch

(Burnt alive, a pyre of Soviet Kitsch).

Monday.

I didn't have time to include in the last post...

BETTER NEWS PT. II

I'm planning on filming a fan-made video for the song "Not The Same" by Ben Folds. However, how I will manage to do this with my restrictions of time, money, management, hope, and, well... everything... while still filming a worthwhile and somewhat professional video... Yes, that is a true mystery, up there with that Indiana Joneseque crap.

But I will do it.

BEST NEWS

I've found the secret to happiness.

In Berlin, Stopped By The Polizei

(For drunk driving, and everyone smiled

OneHour and ThirtyMinutes into the 14thDay of February.

Also more commonly known as...

Sunday.

GOOD NEWS.

The days are getting better.

The momentum is building! The newspaper is getting better. In my mind, no place else. But all great actions begin as great plans which begin as great thought sprouted from a Lennon-andMcCartney-esque imagination. Although, I shouldn't single those chaps out. We are all insane.

BETTER NEWS.

I have so much to do tonight.

I'm so busy.

Papers to revise.

Paper, need I mention, are beyond all hope of revision for lack of substantial writing skill, maturity, perhaps an excess of maturity, WRITING SKILL, humor, good jolly ol' sportsmanship, oh, did I mention... WRI...TING...SKI...ILL...

In Frankfurt, I Heard "Eins, Zwei, Drei"

(Counting cookies, and no one was shot).

Thursday.

This week sped by. Speedin' bullet.

Math is incomprehensible, in a comprehensible way. I adore it.

Life can be described as perfect with the following:

A comfortable chair.

Free time.

Spent looking up impossible (for this young person's mind, mind you) math concepts such as fractals and the Mandelbrot set.

Listening to cheesy yet classic 80's songs. Yum.

Drinking a now-lukewarm cup of exhausted chamomile tea.

Wearing my father's too-large-for-me yet so warm jacket.

... Oh, and did I mention...?

No homework.

Life is almost perfect right now. Almost.

There's always a little something in the back of my brain nagging at my common sense and my common sanity, but I try to drive that little voice back to where it came from (a little town called Reason and Worry--lovely place).

I suppose, though, I should commence my comparison/contrast essay on Dante/Faust. And that play I'm supposed to write... Yes, that. But no, instead I'm spending my time trying to comprehend the Golden Mean in nature (which I am not nearly at yet), hoping there is time for Brain Age and Animal Crossing, and of course some quotidian and fearfully necessary reading-before-bedtime.

I haven't written in a while.

Typed, yes. I am in the process of typing "I am in the process of typing I am in the process of typing I am in the process of typing..."

You get the point.

I digrrrress.

No, I have not written on tangible paper with tangible pen in quite a while. I'm afraid to recount the days and tell you. No, I shan't. But I'm afraid of what will happen when my pen hits the paper, when it's just us 3 alone in the room. Me, pen, paper. All working together to create, what I hope to be, something pleasurable to read. I, of course, spearhead these projects whilst they are merely my SLAVES OF SCRIBERY! MUAHAHA!

This is what higher level math does to the mind.

Bad shit, I tell you.

In Paris, I Saw A Big Fish

(Swimming slow in the Seine).

(It made me hopeful that someday our water will be breathable again).

Monday.

I am currently in the process of writing a play.

In my synopsis, it's so dreary. I believe it's an okay plotline, but I want to make the play stick out from others. Not just another typical play. But how can I break the mold? There are so many molds, and so many current break it in. I must find my own place to break it, without causing the entire thing to disintegrate...

Let me consider a few things.

Plot: Beginning (exposition), Middle (building action and perhaps climax), Ending (climax, falling action, resolution).

Typical.

Characters, some static some round. Yes, quite rotund.

Some serve as catalysts, unaffected and unchanged.

They change the others.

Yes.

Not many characters nor scene changes... Too difficult.

Must I truly read up on this stuff?

Can it truly be that difficult?

Yes, the writing process in itself is tedium, pure tedium.

Well, well.

How can I integrate into such fragile guild lines, while still maintaining a piece of work that is original, yet understandable?

This can't just be another one of those, these, this or that.

No, no.

Won't allow it.

So allow me, nameless and faceless soul, to expatiate briefly my ideas.

June will be her name. June.

Born on June 19th, 1919.

On June 19, 1933, she is 14. She enters high school on September 3rd, 1933.

Okay, cool.

She lives in Georgia and is not too poor.

I'll consider this later. Right now I must type my synopsis!!

In Gelterkinden, I Forgot To Frown

(Then I remember it again.)

Tuesday.

It's really scary to not be upset.

I. Really don't know what to say.

I know that no one reads this. I wrote it down, I reminded. You know, little things really are the only things that matter. I don't give a crap if someone says "I love you" or whatever. I do care if they say goodbye when they leave. I know that when I do these things, I don't know. It just means something to me. Maybe that's just me. Who knows?

Begin bad week 2. Begin another 7 pointless spans of 24 pointless hours. And I'm sorry if I sound like a typical depressed teen or whatever the hell a person who's reading this would judge me as, but I know that everyone has felt this way at one time or another. Should that be comforting? Because it really isn't.

Who knows? I'm sick and tired of waiting for something, someday, someone to be better. They never are, you know? I can't hope for these things, because they don't happen when I do. Just ride it out, just ride it out.

It's surprisingly difficult.