Truth Is

It's the silence between the notes that really gets to us.

Got Me Nothing

"It's a funny world where machines can replace people."

Funny how all we say used to be hypothetical.

Funny how what we can't conceive will be normal in a few years.

Funny how we can't duck the future.

Funny how we perish in the past, cherish the present, languish all the while.

You know, a breach of privacy is a tidy little box in my mind at the moment. It's a quiet little box that keeps trying to unpack the foam peanuts on my floor upstairs. In a fit, they flew to the ground like they always would.

Would it be wise to use the word "no"? Contextually?

Down Upside Rumours

Let's explore yen.

One side of the problem: the other side of the problem. I'm scared of tallying up my discoveries on papers like I tried once. I feel as I failed. Typer.

Children With Asthma and Good Mothers

I saw a little boy today. Actually, I never saw his face or his mother's face. She was reading him a book about proper inhaler use. She was patient and she had a kind, young, pretty voice. She was a mother.

I saw a little girl today. She was dancing while a blues band played rip-offs of The Fabulous Thunderbirds. A woman in a white dress got up and danced with her and held her hands and smiled with sunglasses atop her head and white sandals abellow her feet.

I saw a man who ate a salad alone, at a far off-table. Then he ate a pretzel and I never saw the man again. He probably got in his car and listened to some Jefferson Airplane.

It's amazing the things you can understand when you look at people. It's amazing the things you can understand when people look back at you.

Then we set out little French fries for the crows and they flew in, one by black and iridescent one, and gobbled them down like presh little fotatoes. I incidentally got some Nutella on my mother's doily that my grandmother had made. I bet my grandmother didn't even know what Nutella was when she made it. That's what occurred to me when I did this, so I immediately attempted to remove the Nutella. My poor grandmother would have thought it was chocolate, but it wasn't. It still bothers me.

But Houston will always bother me the most. And the things that we said there to each other.

It's funny how when you don't see someone for a while, they become unreal. They become something much less than human, something too obsolete. They become a word or a bother or a worry or a feeling. But they never become a name until you can hold their hand when you won't. It's not transitional either; they're just real one moment and unreal and real and unreal. I have a hard time regarding people as real people... When it echoes, they just become the echoes and not the origin, and that's a scary thing to have friends who are echoes. Because you can't hug an echo. And echoes cannot say anything that they are not programmed and taught to say; they will say what you say. And friends who agree are not friends at all.

Folding Chair Next To Me

"Maybe one day you will understand that I don't want nothing from you... Just to sweetly hold your hand. Until that day, please don't be so down. Don't make frowns, you silly clown!"

-Ms. Regina Spektor.

Do we all want that?

There's so much to say, so much time and so little time. I don't know where to start it.

I feel like a failure because I can't get that song... So I learn easier ones? What am I doing?

What?

WHAT?

Yeah, that's pretty much it. I feel like a Gershwin piece for the orchestra... I feel like moving to Taiping and becoming Buddhist and spending the rest of my life sans contact save for music, piano, journal, pen pencil... In the off-somewhere, just thinking. We're all going to die with something missing from us; you know that, right? We're all buried when death untangles the navels and we're buried under some minerals and some worms who know.

I do think that some people know... That woman in the middle of the road.

And then there was that man without a leg, not even begging. He was just sitting in the shade of a highway overpass.

And the girl with a bandanna to cover nothing. She was younger than me. It was wrong.

And greeters at the stores who don't smile; and the greeters at the doors who smile but wish they wouldn't have to.

And the people in alleys with no chances and no choices.

That's life at its truest. It's pure and it's raw; it's unfiltered and it's ready to understand right now.

And then there's the balance:

We need a belief. We need love. We need kindness and personality and understanding.

But there's something else that I know that we're missing. And this bothers me every single day of my life... All of the moments I spend trying to be a good person but I still feel filthy; all of the moments I spent acting selfishly and I think nothing of it until it is too late... All of the moments that I breathe anything, anything, anything: the thought is always there.

And it's always nagging at me.

It's always telling me there's something missing from the world and from our knowledge that I can't die until I find. I can't die without knowing this one thing, but I do not know what this thing is or how to find it. It's like life has asked me to complete a task but continued no further than the last and the first instruction. It has left me with nothing but a want. I will discover this unimaginable trait one day. I'm afraid that I'll turn insane in the process.

It is all about how we curdle.

We all curdle and crumble and cook up, fry up differently. We will all lead different lives and want the same things. We will all follow the same death.

A FUNNY THING:

Anesthesia. It is truly funny.

Because we can withstand a stab wound and we can stand on buildings and scream like little beaten eggs; we can write beautiful, timeless pieces of orchestral proportions, we can glue macaroni and cheese to paper and make a heart melt.

I can go

and I can

do whatever I like.

But when you give me anesthetics, I will fall asleep. And that makes me laugh because we think we are capable of so much, but when we are given a tiny dose of a chemical we are under its control. No matter who you are, let's face the facts:

-You will fall asleep.

-You will get sad.

-You will die.

And that's life in its harshest form. We all need to accept that. I wonder what will matter to me when I'm almost done. I won't remember faces or names or foods or hobbies or loves or nightmares... I won't want to remember. Dying is just an event like all else; it is a soccer game and a concert and a school dance... Just go with it.

The sweet little crickets are humming outside of my window and the clock is telling me that it is 10:47 pm. I don't agree with either one.

You know what's beautiful? Caring for a creature that cannot care for itself, like a baby or a dog or a cat. Imagine the daily relief (unobserved yet unconscious) of a creature such as this. Sometimes the beauty of it makes me want to cry when I look at my own pets and I wonder where they'd be if we hadn't have taken them. If I can save something, I will.

Reading is a good thing.

A Prelude Nocturne

I think that the pink in the sky really did it. Yesterday I just felt a little more perfect than I've ever felt without a situation transpiring, and it was lovely to know that I don't need a situation to smile. I just need to be myself. And smile to strangers; that always helps, yes.

Let summer begin.

A Wishlist Kind of Life

"Do they collide?" I ask, and you smile. With my feet on the dash, the world doesn't matter.

Well, Please Let Me Teach You.

American Ballerina: Coming Soon.

Do I ever make sense? Just wondering.

So, dear world, let me attempt to share some wisdom.

I think...

I was trying a small experiment. It is said in places that the solemn, those with seldom solemnities and soarings, those, those, those are happy truly. Though they sit in silence, they truly reap silence and harvest wisdom. Words are not wisdom to them. However, the sullen and dreary are not happy. At least... Not when they are me. Then I took a 180 down a road and became rather secular and of Terra. Lovely, light; kind of pertinent as that Whips Yoghurt Shit. Yes. I felt delicious, but I felt so mundane. Nobody likes yoghurt enough to pack it for lunch.

There must be a grey, though. We all polarize to the blacks and to the whites, and we don't mix the apples and oranges to make a lovely citrus, warm, fruity concoction. We must. There must be. I can't quite figure it out. It seems that it should be easy.

You see, when I lie awake or when I am asleep and haunted by murderous nightmares, I think of the "missed" matter in the world.

Math isn't math. We're all wrong! The road diverged quite a while back, with Rene Descartes and with Pythagoras; we accepted it. I can't... I mean, I can, to make an A. But in reality, the flast reality that is my head, math is not math.

And the words that we are speaking? In context? What are they really? A societal method of clearer understanding, but at what price? To where the manufactured vowels and sounds, organized and tried true by the Ages, are suddenly deemed as "banned" in a certain order?

I really wish that / wonder if Hitler had sat back once, just once, and wondered and wished what I am now wondering and wishing.

The problem is that I am not a pushover, but I'm quiet.

And I'm loud, but I'm not an asshole.

I expatiate at great lengths, but I am not as confident as it would appear to not be.

I struggle, but I get nowhere with my perfection progression.

Love, Bianca.

So, it happened today just as perfectly as the movies.

I passed him in the halls several times. I couldn't really bring myself to say goodbye. I've never liked that "formal goodbye" thing. Where you just know it is the end, and you make that fact apparent. No, in the Goodbye Moments I just grow in observance and taciturnity. Some might regard me as cold and composed, but on the inside I am waving so fervently I fear my own veins will delve.

I certainly couldn't interrupt a conversation between two fleeting persons. I certainly couldn't even glance as I passed.

No,

I

just

walked out the door and didn't look back at all. Really. That's how it happened.

And in my mind, this is how it happened:

"I will miss you, good man. I will."

I left as cold as the day I had come, when I didn't even know a thing about life up to that point in my life.

But when I returned, he was in his truck and I waved goodbye and watched him drive off somewhere. I didn't cry, but I could have. I didn't. Maybe I wanted to.

And this is how it really happened:

"Goodbye!"

I smiled as I walked into the building. I know that was the last time I'd see him for a while, and I felt incredibly saddened. But it was all right in that moment; it was okay to be sad.

I must admit... I'm very frightened. Summer is beginning, and I don't know how to be free again. Last summer, each night was spent. Just that: spent. Not doing anything or talking or being, but spent they were, sin embargo. I'm scared now because I listen to music and sometimes I want to cry. One day these will be melodies of the past... One day very soon. Each day, the past becomes an increasingly more clear-cut definition:

A YEAR.

A MONTH.

YESTERDAY.

YESTERDAY.

YESTERDAY.

We're never really ready when they throw us to the lions, are we?

A new season or mark in Time usually deserves a list.

MY LIST OF SUMMER GOALS:

-Photography. Learn it. Experiment: with film types, speeds, push processing, holding back, papers, situations, themes. Learn that damn Minolta Maxxum 7000 like the back of my hand.

-Reading. The classics. Beat Susan.

-Be. Just be.

-Freedom time.

-Piano. I'm a lazy ass.

-Make discoveries.

-Music...Get those CDs. Finally make a mix tape.

...Very scared.

You see, I feel as though I have something profusely profound to proclaim and if I continue rambling and stalling ignorance for time, that will surface and make itself well-known among my molars.

"I'm inside your mouth now, behind your tonsils, peaking over your molars."

"Ode to Divorce" was the summer song last summer. Not... a good thing...

I had my eyes open, though; I guess I did that to dry any tears.

Now that I've closed them, they don't leak anymore.

I can't really decide on which combination I prefer. You can't have tears in your eyes and shut them tight... You will drown yourself to death in the end.

And if your eyes are dry and open, you will become blind from the sights that you see sans aide of a little few magnification droplets.

I remember, one night I sat at my keyboard

and I thought

"To hell with this world."

I played quite a few songs. I sang them very loudly. The whole scene was very haphazard, very sloppy and angry. And like Cheerios and glue on cardboard, it was 'beautiful.'

Do you think there's something better to be than human?

There's this dream I have. I want to go to this grave, and I want to leave something. I'm scared that the sovereign subjects, of, of them. I'm scared of all of them. I go to Sam's Club and there they are, buying sodas and groceries. There needs to be something else. By Jove, I will go insane finding this missing piece. I will. Sometimes I wish the subdued lacking would return from its shadow in the Younger Days and I could dance freely, but right now I waltz with an elephant in the room. Nobody wants to talk about the sad, little lives we lead on leashes, very short leashes. I think they are very happy lives, but they are not contented. I don't do happy; I do content.

So, tonight is the first night of my Summertime affair with experimentation. Afraid. Alone, too alone to turn off the music and face the silence in my couch upstairs. Too afraid to walk up the stairs in the dark and in the night. Too afraid to leave the music.

...Therefore, I am.