Listen To:

Selfless, Cold, and Composed by Ben Folds.

It breaks my heart.

A--(Intermission)--(Failure)--List

--23 and a Half Hours (LONG)

--They Sounded Much Like Children (Short)

--Boxing (Short)

---> Finding the typer. I need that typer.

--Or 23 and a Half Hours of Boxing

23 and a Half Hours of Boxing? Not a bad idea, Bianca. But not a good one.

I re-read Cufflinks and the admiration stuck. That's new. So I must be doing something post-adolescently. Something. Is it the jargon of a dead poet, or is it the lack of a plot and substitution of "Reader's Choice"? Or is it the consistency? Or is it the first attempt. It's all of the above. But Pattie and the Sheep aren't going anywhere. Neither is the Road Kill Inspector. She's staying right here. Staring at her dead cat, splayed across her jogging path. GOOD MORNING, WORLD!

Word Of The Day- Popinjay.

Snazzy, yes?

So, you may have noticed I've addressed a certain typer in my recent posts. I've decided to abandon my 3rd semester with another rather iridescent trait that I hold closely to my head: rationality. She will be taking a long walk on the beach, and I will set up an add for her in some newspaper. But until that plot wears off, I'll wear her off. Tricky! And then I will fill her hiatus of a semester's worth of work with the typer. The typer and the dictionary. Because I refuse to use choppers; I use knives and spend 30 minutes to chop an onion. Does that make you think me naive? Nay. Hard work does not produce a satisfactory product until the work grows weary with failure. Fail, fail, fail, then one day you will not fail. And that day will overshadow the rest, I think. I think.

WHAT THE HELL!

I just had an epiphany, about a day ago.

I must go, on that note.

They Sounded Much Like Children

A personal experience of mine, that took place today, made me love that phrase so much.

"THEY SOUNDED MUCH LIKE CHILDREN."

Isn't that hilarious? Hilarious? I thought it in one moment and then the next, I was on the wooden floors that collapsed a couple years ago--(makeshift floor)--and I'm laughing so hard. It's so fucking hilarious. I picked up my pink notebook and laughed my way to the door. A jolly, rotund laugh that was shaped on each side: not a curve with an inch bearing mistaken craftsmanship, not a slight change in noted lack of geometry, not on any piece of the laugh. I liked my laugh.

And you know about those facets? Well, yes, those facets. Like rubies next to a rich man's diamonds. They are a repast of every final and fanciful thought, and they reflect much like children onto the world. They broke some time ago, but it doesn't mean I don't think there "might be some good ones" and I "might make a dollar." Regina. Queen. Well, they're they're they're screwed up doctor! DOCTOR! They're screwed up! Says the man from behind the magazine with a face. The face on the magazine is pretty. The man behind her face is not. The doctor is a somewhat tepid drug cocktail of the two, ironically enough.

And these are the garden rose paths my mind goes on each and every moment. Apres vu, Le deluge. Every 3 seconds--One second to 100 scenes. At the sound of speech's voice, because I'm just human although I deny that truth every time I write and chance it at becoming something more, or something less (that subtle difference I have not differentiated yet). And thus it is dust, like Pattie said. Pattie the pioneer! Am I making an allusion, excuse me? Slap me, please. I am a yuppie.

"It felt just like falling in love-- again."

The ugliest lyrics were written.

Sung in the most eloquent susurrus of the fingers.

WHAT!

I'm so off topic. Yes, the facets. Well yes yes. And I sat in my father's car and thought of miscommunication and memories I would like to forget but not right now because they're still happening. And I thought about how I don't laugh. I wondered how the world saw me. A square; I'm a square. I don't really ever laugh, I just live. "Live, laugh, love." I do the first and the last... I leave the middle one to the moments where I don't intend to. The badinage: "Oh, Oh, Colloquial Text Inserted Here!" "HA-HA-HA."

The second idiot is me. I laugh. I laugh? I laugh in my mind a lot. Because everything is funny in there because it all makes sense the split second, the e, the unreachable interval after it transpires.

And you know: there are so many unformulated math formulas.

And You Know.

They just sounded much like children.

And look what I got.

I'm Not Quite Pregnant

So so so. Today.

What to say?

MY OBJECTIVES! No, not of the history variation that cause the displacement of hair to floor, to sink, to vomit in a bathtub. For years. Not those, idiot. No, not of the English variation that cause the stillness of the pen, the quiet epiphany--no need to write THIS.

Digression. No, I mean that I want to find the electric typewriter.

EXCERPT:

"Do you own a type writer?"

"Yes, I do. Why?"

"Do you use it?"

"No."

"Will you ever?"

"No. It's special to me; it was given to me by my father."

"What will become of it?"

"I guess I'll give it to someone."

"Who?"

"You, I guess."

I'm a lucky, lucky woman. Why is it that I want a typewriter? And to walk 2 miles. And to chew on lollipop sticks with no taste or hint of the lollipop I ate. ODD, ODD.

Practicalities have got me in a bind! AH AH AH! I just feel like shouting at the past for being so damned rote and specific: intervals and punctuation. The ability to spell "emulous" and be emulous itself and succeed, carry out the definition while fully knowing its meaning. I do not know. I was raised a little seed in a large field of stupidity. The Dawning of the Age of... Taurus, the stupid bull. Lacking. Jejune. I'm missing the war.

And I don't know what to say.

And I don't think I've said anything.

I need that typer.

And I Cannot Compile

My 3 am phone calls

Into this. And I'm trying

Too hard and I'm on the phone with myself

And with the computing tapping

And we're all talking

And I feel like It's Summer and I'm just making up for lost time

But I'm not quite as crazy AS I'D LIKE TO BE!

I just discovered a button on my keyboard:
It's called the capitalization button

And you're stupid as Hell.

I can feel my insides moving to my shoulder blades

And back out through my earlobes

And resting on my thighs, like damned perverts.

Damned pervert.

And I type "I" now, instead of "i"

Because I'm not as imaginary number,

As I giggled from behind my math textbooks

And "TEXTBOOK" by We Are Scientists is clanging in the phone.

I'm now real.

And now, what?--3 months later--

I'm finally piecing these truths together

Because the past makes no sense when it's present.

Now I understand

Why you use capitalization

And you are so laconic and so garrulous and you know so many words and I don't.

And you are so slow to talk

So quick and nimble on the typewriter,

Peering at intervals at my hair

My hair is long now.

"Pretty, isn't it?" I think snide remarks are of their own class. Of sarcasm. Love it.

"Pretty pretty." HA-HA, Aphorisms. HE-HE, You're funny.

HA-HA, We're all so high and not so high. Never high but always high? Right?

We make no sense as we cry and as we shout.

This is the moment I will never forget

Because it never happened and I just created it

Right now

Right now right now!

I can create the past all I want;

Shape it with my revered geometric figures

And my compilations of what I believe to be true of it:

None of it is true.

But I'm crazy

As I ever was and will be (maybe more now than ever),

So I let myself believe.

If It Begins

If it begins with a quote, I won't read it.

If it begins with a anything, I won't read it.

I hate literature that they pour into our minds

In the schools and in the parks and in the pretty, fancy dresses.

I hate ALL OF IT.

Until I go home.

Then I Love It.

Isn't it funny? Bukowski, you fool. You published over 50 books of prose, novels, novellas, poetry, and other things with pretty and official names. But what were you doing? You were writing your mind on paper. On paper goes the human mind, and the money from desperate housewives goes to people who aren't you and you buy wine and beer. Bukowski, you'd hate me. I'm 15, I'm a girl, and I try to be not-me.

You know what I love about artists?

The true artists are the ones who have a genre unto themselves. They do not affiliate with a stereotype and feel the need to stick to it- LEST THE MASSES HAUNTINGLY WALK OFF WITH THEIR MONEY AND FAME! They find the scraps and remnants (I hate that work--too 7th grade) and compile some variation (6th grade--and impressive) of the works. They do it to escape the gnashing of teeth they endure as an artist. They sit there, stewing in their issues and dramatized moments of the past, they gnash and gnaw. The artist cannot escape. They can write. They write. It's the genre I call "This-Is-My-Mind." No rules, no punctuation (should you deem it so-- e e jr!), no spell check. The mind does not filter; the pen does. Aesthetics do, for the sake of themselves, their reputations! The years of history and graves and papers intercoursing with pens cannot be disgraced! We are like little children with the capacity to wonder and to defy our parents. What? I sound young. Can't have it. Can't have it.

Genre: subjective.

Subjective: 10th grade, honestly.

I'm a sad, sad, lonely person. As I laugh.

I Won't Name It Because Every Name Has Been Exhausted (EVEN THIS ONE)

Sorry for the deluge of literary shit.

It's for school.

"Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook" is excellent, yet incomprehensible. The book: The book is understandable. The prose-poetry portion bearing that moniker: Quite difficult to read. It is the true uncensored insanity that fills the minds of the greats who spent years on the streets doing God-knows-whats and God-knows-who(re)s. It is amazing; the people that don't laugh or live... They seem not happy at all, but complete. Isn't it odd? We do live in a too-many world.

On a lighter note, I thus commence my homework. On a Sunday night.

GO ASPIRATIONS!

Counting Sheep

"Do we own a typewriter?"

"I suppose so."

"Do we own it?"

"Do we own anything?"

"Nobody owns."

"Yes, we own a typewriter."

Intermission.

"This typewriter is..."

"...Is it, now?"

"Very much so. I composed a story on it."

"And you couldn't before?"

"I could. But it never made it past my mind. Isn't this wonderful! Thank you, humanity, for making my dreams possible!"

"Let me read the story."

"If you wish."

Silence.

"And the final verdict is..."

"It was horrid."

"Oh, come on. Don't be harsh."

"I like to don it as 'honesty.' And it is honest."

"It's my first story..."

"I want to hear what's on your mind's pages; I don't want a translation onto real paper. It only mutes your true genius, love."

"Oh, yeah. Now you say that."

"Tell me a story. An old one, but give it a new twist."

"So pushy. So, so pushy."

"Well?"

"Well. There was once a small boy who herded... Ehm... Dogs. Yes, dogs. One time, this little brat wanted attention and called to his mama: 'HEY MAMA! Rin-tin-tin escaped, and with the mortgage papers, too!' The mama ran out of the trailer home with a broom and found Rin-tin-tin in the corner of the herding pen. 'STUPID MUTT!' she cried as poor Rin-tin-tin rin-tin-winced all the way into the corner."

"I don't think I've heard this one."

"Let me finish! So Rin-tin-tin turns very resigned and doesn't show up at meal-time anymore. He doesn't play with Lassie and Fido, but instead he just chews the fence wood very, very quietly. The little herder brat still is ignored by his mama, and he calls to her a few weeks after the Rin-tin-wincing incident: 'HEY MAMA! Lassie's been sneaking 'round the barn at night with some burly male German shepherd!' The mama ran out of the trailer home, but she didn't open the door because by now there was none."

"Where'd it go?"

"Sold it."

"Why?"

"Why else? Anyways, the mama ran out with a rake and yelled straight in Lassie's ear: 'HEY HEY YOU STUPID MUTT! I GIVES YOU THE BEST FOOD IN ALL THE COUNTY, YOU SNEAK 'ROUND WITH A BURLESQUE GERMAN SHEPHERD?! YOU DISGRACE OUR ENGLISH SURNAMES!' I personally think Lassie got the raw end of the bone, ironically. The little boy had, in fact, never seen a German shepherd in his life. Neither had Lassie. Lassie joined the ranks of the ruined with Rin-tin-wince--as the little herder brat now tauntingly called him--and never joined another feast of leftovers. She chewed the fence wood with Rin-tin-wince and sat in silence at his paws. Now Fido grew terribly jealous of the two, and believed that he was being ostracized for being the only happy one left in the lot. He grew impatient for a companion and kind word, and turned to the little herder brat for attention. 'You, hey. Stupid mutt,' the boy mused with kindness. He embraced Fido in his skinny arms, and Fido could smell the fear in the herder's breath. He absolutely reeked of the stuff! Fido stuck his nose inside the boy's mouth and the boy bit down, hard, and ran the dog out into the world adjacent to the fence. Outside!"

"This..."

"I'm almost done."

"Is..."

"I swear."

"I don't understand."

"You will. So the dog ran and ran until the sun stood at a standstill on the horizon. A lonely little speck of light could be seen at the base of the sylvan hills, and the dog decided to turn back for mealtime, even if Lassie and Rin-tin-wince wouldn't join him. He sprinted back into the direction the sun had faced earlier, but Fido was notorious for a lack of sense of direction. Fido slept through the night on a bed of dead bees, and awoke the next morning to a sky with both moon and sun present. The dog continued on his search for home. He smelled the fear before he saw it: the little herder brat sat at the steps of a door-less, windowless trailer house with a broom and a rake. The mama could be seen through the window--or I guess now it was more like a hole--and could be seen with a frying pan and a spatula. Lassie and Rin-tin-wince could be seen chewing wood. It was the same scene he had left, as if the scene had suspended itself and awaited his regal arrival. Gartered and smuggled in with pride, the little dog pawed his way to the not-door, until the fear was pungent enough to choke the most pugnacious of horses. The mama, noting Fido's return, came out with the spatula and slid a hunt of fried meat to the dry ground. 'Eat up, fellow.' She turned to her son and, grabbing his ear, shouted with a rage only that mama could accumalate: 'SON, YOU LIED. THAT DOG BEEN HERE AND RETURNED. YOU SAY THAT DOG RUN AWAY! WELL HE COME BACK! YOU STUPID MUTT! STUPID MUTT!' The stupid mutt speech resonated through the sofa's holes, through the roached on the frying pan, and through the boy's shoes as he scrambled down the steps in fear, reeking of it still. The next day, Fido saw the stupid mutts chewing on the fence wood and unhappily munched away on his fried meat leftovers."

"The end?"

"You got it."

"That was certainly an improvement from what you typed."

"What did I type? I can't even recall; it was around 4 a.m. last morning that I wrote that."

"You wrote as follows: 'Once there was a herder boy with three sheep. His family was poor, obviously, since they only had three sheep. When the sheep would seem too placid and start to anger him with their serene elation, he'd whine to his mama that they'd been getting into trouble. The mama would punish the sheep into its demise of emotion. The boy seemed pleased by this, because no one wanted to listen to him unless he was talking about the sheep. And he refused to talk positively about the sheep, because of their elated serenity. When he realized only one sheep remained, he felt much sorrow for the lonesome sheep and loved it as his own until it ran away out of fear of punishment and betrayal. The boy had nothing, not even a sheep to herd, and the family had not a sheep to their name to bequeath unto the boy. The family was the pitiful laughing stock of the city, and the boy was the pitiful laughing stock of the gods and the demons. The world was filled with laughter for years that passed from those days, and sheep were sheered and made into woolen coats that children laugh at when they wear them. The END."

"That is horrible."

"That is."

"I don't think I was awake when I wrote it. I dreamed it."

"This is why we should never tell our children to count sheep before they sleep. Foolish nonsense, all of it."

Pattie the Pioneer

"Dust didn't favor eyes, just as eyes turned away from dust in disgust. The two just don't fare well together."

Thus was the decision made at the cross roads, by the valiant and tremendous Pattie. Pattie, a male of a younger make and model, found the town he was born unto quite despicable. Pattie, an artist of an atypical sense, found the town mundane in that each corner followed a neat pattern and a mien of similarity. The only variation found in any of the corners were the certain people that inhabited them: the tall, the proud, the eagle-men perched on sidewalks made of dust and dust and dust.

Dust.

It had always bothered Pattie. He had gathered some into bottles when he was young, and he had smashed those bottles when he was old as he had gotten. He had sipped the dust from the bottles after having feigned a cocktail: one part dust, 8 parts hard liquor. The works. His defiance towards dust unsettled him, and he often spent his nights in the streets sleeping among the dust. Perhaps that's why he detested it so; it was his home, it was part of this despicable town in this despicable land of eagle-men.

Pattie was a writer, of a sense. He wrote what he read from his mind, and composed volumes of the obscenity and obscurity of those on the streets of Arizona's relentless turf. He never tried to make a living of this, though, because he didn't want to earn money. Money turns to dust, and dust gets in his eyes. So he wrote volumes and volumes of the years that had been placed in his life by some unseen Force, and speculated the events and composed formulas to his own life, and Pattie the genius lived in the sewer. Whenever a volume of 40 or so books (each composed of 200 or so pages), he spat on them, kicked them into the sidewalks, and kept on this way until he believed he saw blood coming from his foot. He regarded it as the books bleeding, and disregarded the pain in his foot as a parting feeling. Pattie was a genius.

People spat on Pattie in the streets, just as he spat on his life books. They kicked him but they never bled. All of the men that he owed money to, all of the women he owed explanations to, all

of the too-many-people in this too-many world. Too many. He never kept up with his debts or leaves, because what's the use, thought Pattie. He would never catch up once the cycle starts.

Debts and leaves were like dust, thought Pattie. They were started by the same Force that forced his volumes, and they never stopped. They started and blew in the faces of dinos and then autos and then new inventions and then Pattie. It's no use stopping the dust. It's no use paying the debt. He'd die one day, and the one he owed would die one day, and the debt would be gone.

Pattie lined the sidewalk home of his with his dust bottles. The green and grey stared back with immovable silence that was subjectively tangible. He sat on his belly button-- for lack of a belly filled with anything save beer, whiskey, and wisdom-- and he began the cross examination of the dust. Passersby slowly massacred him and the likes of him with their eyes, but he cared not. They mattered not to Pattie the genius. Pattie the pioneer. He laughed to himself, soft as a baby's, at the thought of himself appareled in a pioneering woman's frock. The grey and the black and the white, much like a maiden-mother. The baby grew into an insolent adolescent. The laughter built upon itself and filled every mundane corner with its presence. He even thought it reached China! The Chinese mothers were beating rugs and listening to Pattie the pioneer woman laugh. HA-HA, came the joyous peals.

A man kicked Pattie's side, hard.

"Shut up. I'm tired of the likes of you in our town." Massacre.

Pattie laughed at the blood that was on the man's shoe, because now the man had to clean. HA-HA, came the sadistic peals of the foot on Pattie the pioneer's side. HA-HA-HA. And the joke continued until Pattie felt rather breathless and the baby that had grown into an adolescent celebrated a rather tremendous number of birthdays and could hold no more years.

This is why Pattie hated dust. He became it in 100 year's time.

I Once Said Something Profound

In my mind.

It was during my showering time, mind you, yes.

Yes, and it was on the idea of

Poetry in relation to the poet and the public;

What it all means.

I had made sense of it.

The sense that I make

Comes from spurring of the most mundane of moments.

Those when I realize:

HUMANITY!

It's here.

Like a movie, much like.

And the quote out of context,

it remained there kind-of-silent

Among my cells and rattling shells and such.

It didn't really move.

I never really move.

And then later that night, or morning, or some Time

(Relativity and time bear no correspondence in my mind--

Their letters are punctuated heavily and terse, terse)

I viewed a cinema film

In my room

On my DVD Player that doesn't work.

And it was entitled A Serious Man.

The film rolled along

mundane

mundane

Mundane.

And it seemed

Like I was peering into a life

That I should not be.

A Peeping Tom(ette?).

And I wanted to turn away

In

Disgust

Because I didn't belong here.

But I don't feel the sense of belonging anywhere:

Don't Get Me Wrong.

I'm not saying that

My life

Is a

Downward

Spiral

Into

An Inescapable Hell of Sorrow.

Hell no.

The sense of belonging I lack isn't one that I miss.

It is inspired and ensued and ensured by myself.

Who would want to belong to such a breed?

Of insolence, of generation-seeking-heat-seeking missiles

And all they do is dissect and dissect the past;

And they fret and fret over the future;

And the present? Is no object to them.

I placed myself

Outside of that shindig. Thank you.

And so A Serious Man:

Almost seemed as though there was no point,

The entire story

Was just.. plotless.

It's one of those movies that will be churned up

In the paper two days after its release

With a title akin to:

"A SERIOUS MAN: SERIOUSLY DULL!"

"WE DON'T WANT SO MUCH SERIOUS; GIVE US ACTUAL HUMOR!"

"A SERIOUS MAN IS A FAILURE TO THE CONCEPT OF PLOTS, FILMS, AND EVEN REDUNDANCY!"

It's true; If you're everyone.

Those things:

The pointless courses

And the outlines

And the stupid monkeys that sit on house tops

And sing songs 3,000 years old.

"It's all stupid, Mama!"

It's true; If you're everyone.

Don't... Try to make sense of these things.

And take them

Into a perspective you don't hold.

You can't hold the world;

You are not Icarus.

Icarus?

I only have one short story to claim

As my own.

And it has no point.

I don't think anything

Does

Unless you will it to.

And I will it to.

I will, too.

But anyways;

I have no recollection

Of that profound thing I said

In my mind.

Or any of the aphorisms of the same genre.

Parchment of the soul

Is not even of the same make as

Parchment of the pen.

Parallel Circles

I know there's something more that we don't know.

Not something that we know we don't know.

But we could know.

If we had the right telescope.

The right submarine, submachine.

Something, something that we look for

In the faces of the people in the

Movie theaters

and the cars they

Drive Away

from us in.

And we stare at the backsides of the old, old, oldold

Men and we laugh

At the ugliness that we see.

And we think of how ugly the world is.

And how beautiful we want ours to be.

And how pitiful everyone is.

But we keep searching, we keep inventing

New ideas and technology

And new mathematics concepts

And we think we've invented infinity

We think that by Jove we've got it!

The knowledge

and the surplus

and the movies and the people and the heinous crimes

We turn our noses to the cloudless sky

In

Disgust.

But we won't know...

It's not something that you can know you don't know

And you won't know

That you ever didn't know

Until you know.

You know?

I don't.

Then once we know we didn't know it;

We'll all just be human like the rest

With the same withheld information

All being common, communicated, connected

Without wires!

Wires, wires, wires.

Bleedin.

Bleeding.

All the voices that we heard

And the faces that we saw

And the backsides that we laughed at

Every note

Every single note

(Is this me talking?)

Won't matter.

Because we'll see.

And I wish I knew what this thing was.

I could say "OH YES OH YES

IF WE COULD JUST FIGURE OUT THIS

AND THIS CONCEPT

AND THIS NUMBER HERE

WE'LL ALL BE FREE!!!

ALL HAPPY!!!"

We're getting closer.

But we cannot share this.

Maybe maybe maybe.

Maybe I really am crazy

And one day someone will come along

with enough insanity to tell me

And we'll pull our notes together

We'll tell each other

What we've noticed:

The gaps, the missing parts of the universe

That are lost

And we are thrown distraction to not find them...

We'll reassess it all

And come to a final conclusion:

We are both crazy,

And we will fall in love to prove it.

All Of The Things

That I thought were "so easy"... Just got harder and harder each day.

Gah. This stupid discovery called music is making me so nostalgic for the present, if that makes sense. So today, I'm typing like a normal person. Sigh. I hate being normal. It's like I said to Susan and Bailey: I write like an intellectual, I speak like a stupid valley girl. Everything that comes from my mouth is plain, stupid, and facetious. Do I even want to talk like I write, though? If I did, no one would understand me. I'd get called a knowitall and no one would want to be my friend. Sigh, sigh, sigh. I'll be back to NOT normal soon, though. I guarantee. Every normal word that I type frightens me that I'm slowly and slowly approaching that line....... That line of linearity.

So I will write a poem!!

Oh, no. Warning: a poem written during one of my "normal" stints SUCKS. I swear. No one really reads this but still. Whoever may be reading this. It's going to suck.

Actually, no. I'm not going to write any poetry. BecauseBecauseBescause today is about nonconformity. And I realize that no, everyone else is me and I'm everybody else... When we all speak. We all speak and say the same things anyways, so why are we scared to speak? Well, we do anyways. And the silence is like a feast, a feast. And the words are like the food but it's no normal feast. Here's how it works, bub:

You talk. You supply food to the feast. The silence is yours, and some is leftover. TAKE IT TAKE IT! IT'S LEFTOVERS! You can still get your two cents in there! Go!

No, no. I don't want to be a dog begging for silent scraps that only mangle and choke my opinions. And what use are they, anyways? My opinions, their opinions, it's all the same. All the same. That's why the Devil's Advocate is such a lovely title to hold. Not a genuine one. See, here's the method: Play Devil's Advocate for fun, and then adopt the view. Adopt it, believe it, love it. This, of course, is subjective like every other thing in this world.

I sound like prime meat, don't I? But in this day and age, what isn't? There's something and I like to call it cleverness. We all have it. Why must...

See, this is the part where I should say goodbye and hang up my virtual pen and walk away before I make any more of a normal fool of myself. Every single word I'm writing is just making me cringe... I sound like a... Like a... 15-year-old girl... EW. She's not me. I'm not her. We're not each other. She's just general and she's just typical and she's just a stereotype of what I could be and chose not to be. And for a reason. No one wants to be that. Well, no, I lied.

No amount of words could make me feel better, though. Because they'll all sound like the one before it but with +/- the amount and and and and .... I don't know.

A Diphthong of Days

All of these stupid, stupid songs. These stupid, stupid movies. And these STUPID, STUPID episodes of What I Like About You. They make me believe that maybe one day I'll have that. Or some variation of it. I don't want to sit at a fancy table and drink water from a wineglass. I don't want to hold hands in a meadow and shield my sweaty brow from the sweaty sun. And I do not... do not... want smalltalk. I don't want it. Who would want it?

I cannot think. It's one of those weeks where the thought just is gone somewhere, but I know he'll return again. He always does. Eventually. The first time he went away, I got real worried. Got. Real. Worried. I says to him, "Hey, hey. Where are you?" but there was no reply resonating in the echoing hollows that are: my mind. So I calls him again; I calls him 23 times and he won't show up for dinner or for any of my lovely afterparties. He showed up later, though. You know, he's lucky I'm so forgiving. If I weren't, I'd shut him out.... But then I'd become an adult. And no, we cannot have that yet. Or ever.

Goodmorning.

The Inventions of Ecclesiastes

Woe art thou, thine fineries and phrases of Realism.

Woe.

Art.

Thou.

Whoa.

Art...!

THOU?

WHOAARTTHOU.

I need less time.

God has been all too generous to me.

I need to write a compilation of 12 short stories and poems with a contemporary twist on the theme of Realism. The idea is simple. It should only take 3 weeks to compose these 12 works, given the amount of cookies I consume and the hours of sleep I don't get. With those circumstances, all is simple.

The difficulty? My reflexive criticism. My inability to achieve the quintessence of literature--such a high honour! All that had come in time's past has had the opportune Age of Reverence. An age where anything goes, anything is new. Nothing is new now. And now poor old Plato, deep within his grave in the Measly Way, is stirring for his rightful Nobel Prize in Literature, dated to the appropriate years that we could only surmise. But the late, great Plato has more of a sporting chance than I, or anyone, ever will. To be considered influential or talented. To be written about in a literature book that bored, glazed over students in a tiny, first year school will receive. They won't care; it's 8th hour--they want freedom, not the facts! Give me that air to breathe, man! But no, no. I'll be sifting silently in my own grave with the pure pleasure of being an afterthought after the afterlife. Afterthought-- what a connotation. I guess you could look at it in that way...

AFTERTHOUGHT--> It occurred after the original thought.

"So, would you like to go to the dance with my tonight?" a boyish smile hints from behind a telephone. But I cannot see this. I can only insinuate from the tone.

"No, your girlfriend just moved away and now you're lonely. I know it. I'm just the runner up." Honesty is the best policy, plays the record in my head.

"You're my closest friend who's a girl, and it'll be fun." The smile is growing weary with my inquisition. The final blow is coming...

"Honesty is the best policy, and you've proved to be a fine citizen of morals." I wipe the sarcasm off of my tile floor with a used towel. That damn fluid never ceases to exude.

I hang up.

I'm the afterthought.

AFTERTHOUGHT--> It occurred as a stemming of the original thought, in a reminiscing sort of way.

The phone line was dead as a doorknob. The boyish smile robed himself with a soft robe and nestled in his bed, left to stare at the cottage cheese walls of his room.

Here in the silence, everything turned to something else. Dressers were Australian wheat fields that shifted with the patterns of the sea. The clock was suddenly made of duct tape and coconuts that fell from an nestled deep in the East. The floor was a sky with white, white paint and blue, blue clouds made of bugs with shilling wings.

Here in the silence, he let himself muddle with insanity. Slowly, they waltzed on the broken shards of a reality... Break, break. The shards dripped through his ceiling that was a floor.

Break, break: went the plates downstairs. China's finest china was sent to its demise on a twin set of cottage cheese walls in the downstairs kitchen. Each night ended this way. His storybook of the civil war of mental capacity and the lullaby his mother supplied with her talents spurred by fury.

Furry fury. He turned the phrase over in his mind like a blueberry he had picked last spring, until a bee had stung him and he tossed it into the bush that conceived it. The bee flew away; job well done.

And suddenly he remembered-- blueberry shampoo. Who makes that? Who the hell owns that? Blueberry shampoo? What the hell kind of a...

She owned it. She smelled of it.

He turned her over in his mind, but the bees with shilling wings were frightened by the lullabies his mother kept resounding. The bees stung him at all sides and he was once again alone, with the scent of blueberry somehow on his lips.

She would always be an afterthought.

Funny, isn't it? I guess Matthew was right: there is nothing that can be looked at in only one way.

The Origin of Repitition

Dear Jenna,

I'm giving Teen Ink a chance. Just for grins, giggles, and boredom.

Thanks for the suggestion, and my sluggish response, yes?

Signing off as,

Bianca

Quelqu'un M'a Dit

Yesterday, I went to the rodeo for the first time. You see, how odd, is life, yes. Last year I refused to go. I was so different last year. A brat, I'd say. I'm still a brat, yes. But I hold high standards for myself: perfection. Impossibility. Lovely.

Anyways, I met some odd people there. I met a lady whose hair was very reminiscent of Meryl Streep's in "Death Becomes Her," and a freak at the freak show. I also ate some carnival munchies and didn't even feel sick. Wow, such a contrast. I'm enjoying this, no? But I do miss the days of heavy whining and crying and basically, emotion. Not that I'm an emotionless robot at all, but without sadness there is no weeping and no wheat to reap or sow. Basically?

When I look out of the car windows at people, I think of two things.

1) How the people don't look back. And when they do, they don't smile. Given, neither do I, but still.

2) That one time when I was about 6 and my brother said, "Look at that weird kid. He's just looking out the window at everybody." I'm him. Or I guess her, now. No... not a transvestite. I swear.

Something about correct grammar usage is just so sexy. i remembr wen i used 2 type lyk ths. Now when I look back on this, I outwardly and inwardly cringe in pure DISGUST! It's so... lacking. Of sense and sensibility. Shuddering...

Today is a less eloquent day for me. Sorry, my only 2 viewers. Sorry.

So,

Please.

Please.

Please.

Let me.

Let me get what I want this time.

More later!

Hey, Mr. Arnstein...

I swear. This woman is just so beautiful. Along with Regina Spektor and Zooey Deschanel, she is my fashion icon. I'm lapsing in and out of normal for the 7th time in forever. I just want to dress up all sweetly and feminine, gallop in some flowers, and find Mr. Perfect in those flowers. Although... what would a boy be doing frolicking in flowers? This is questionable and I must take it up with him one day. Yes, yes.

Being normal sucks.

The Entertaineress

Oh yes oh yes oh yes.

Life is looking up.

Spring break has always been an odd time for me. Breaks and I, we just never held hands quite nicely. He's always yanking me this way and that, and I, the same. Yes, yes. We never fared well. Just fulminated through nights of 3 ams and stomach flus and arguing over sheepish love. That's me for you.

But this break will be amazing. Yes, yes, amazing. Why you ask? I don't know why. I have an eye infection and I've been feeling sick lately, but for some reason I'm in the highest of hopes and moods. It's the stupid thing called love, then you combine it with hope, potential, and the future (add a pinchy pinch of naivety) and you've got yourself a fool. It's funny because everyone is confusing in their own way. I know I'm confusing; I confuse myself. But one day there's going to be two people, everywhere and anywhere, who want to stick around long enough to figure each other out. I used to think love was when two people mutually shared feelings of affection towards each other and just as mutually agreed to share them openly. Wrong. It's the mutual consent to read each other like books, pore through every page with a microscope, and even risk an eye ache or 10. Everyone will want to figure someone out. I love figuring people out. Does that mean I'm in love with every person I meet? Oh, gosh. Major polygamy issues here.

Today, I sang very loud and realized two things:

1) I have a horrible voice.

2) I love my voice.

Well, I've been slacking on my OCD about grades. Time to check my 4.0 again!

Back and Forth, Up and Down, Inside Out

I don't want anyone else.

Lack of Lacuna

Last night was one of those nights where time meant nothing. It was pure bliss. I went into my bedroom, closed the door, plugged in my new radio that is broken and listened to horrible music. After I sat awake and did that for about 30 minutes, I pulled out my super secret DVD player for nights when insomnia and amnesia peaks. I watched The Kite Runner and cried twice. I'm starting to cry more at movies and less at life... Is that bad? Anyways, watched that. By then it was around 2 a.m. and I just cautiously peered out the window at the street and watched my neighbor's young boy leave and arrive at the house at all hours. Eventually, exhaust won me over as it does every night. But I like to fight it that way, because maybe one day I'll win.

And today is a secret. But it was enjoyable in odd, odd ways. Odd indeed. I feel solemn now.

Rhythm and Reds

You know how people ride around cities blasting rap and feeling B.A.?

Well, it's kind of the same for me. Except I blast oldies. I swear, those bands will never die.

There are just some songs that are perfect. There are those songs that I listen to, real close, and in one line I'll think "Wow, what an unoriginal line" or "I wish she would have sung that a tad bit differently." But there are some, very few, songs that get the Bianca Stamp of Appeal. They are, by my subjective definition, perfect. I will start my list of perfect songs right now.

The Day the Music Died by Don McLean

Take Me On by A-Ha

Dusseldorf by Regina Spektor

Blackbird by The Beatles

She's Always a Woman by Billy Joel

I don't know what else yet. I will though!

So today I went to climb on a large rock. On the way there, I saw 3 old men standing on a bridge and watching the waters and waters of a lake. Those are the kind of strangers I love. It's those moments where the term "You must love everyone" seems possible. When we got to the rock, we were in the car listening to "Telephone" by Lady Gaga and Beyonce. A car in front of us was listening to it too, and dancing along. I could see the car back bob and bob, up, down, up, down. I watched them until the music stopped along with their bobbing. Then we entered the park and I saw a handsome, affable park ranger who reminded me of my friend and that made me almost smile. I was blasting "The Day The Music Died" and "Penny Lane." It's so refreshing to hear those songs on the radio. Then we climbed up the rock and it brought back so, so many memories from my early years. I would hike that mammoth rock for what seemed like a full day but in reality is only an hour. We'd picnic at the picnic tables and drop Cheeto's to watch ants snatch them up and carry them away. The world was amazing. It still is. Just with a dash of confusing now, though. At the top of the rock, my mother and I discussed the oddities of life to survive in conditions not meant for it. Nature is smart but self atrophying. It threw us an Antarctic wind, a Pacific ocean bottom, a desert where nothing and nothing seems to live. The stronger ones of us survived. I wish I were like that.

I tried German food.

I had a nice waiter who smiled at me but didn't give me my potato chips.

I met a dog named Arcadia of whom I took a picture.

I met a girl named Vianca, which is funny because Alex thought my name was Vianca. Funny, funny.

I had coconut fudge and thanked God that I'm not starving or dying and I can do what I can. And wondered why I can do what I can.

I miss the days when a song could last 6 minutes and nobody would mind. And it didn't need synthesizers and fake violins and fake fake fake everything. It was just a poet of chords and his/her guitar or piano on a stage, singing. And no one would interrupt his/her soul-spilling. They'd just let the soul spill and spill like soul soup. They'd let it carry around to every person in the entire venue until everyone had had their fill of connection and understanding and love and sorrow and for a moment, a corner of the world would just understand.

Nowadays, if the song is longer than 3 minutes and 30 seconds we get impatient. Especially if it's a bad one, and most are. And in the venues, we don't eat soul soup. No, no. We all starve ourselves with our jumping and loudness and fake fake fake everything.

Fake fake fake fake.

It's 10:00 pm. I should probably wrap this up.

It's 11:28 and I'm Still Crazy As Hell

Documenting the typically ignored hours of time. That's what I call this.

While I type *clickity clackity* away at my chemistry lab write up. That is due tomorrow. That I am starting now. That will probably take 3 hours for a 98, 2 for a 90, 1 for an 85 and NO I WILL NOT ACCEPT ANYTHING BELOW A 98. THANK YOU.

So, thus I commence.

11:30 pm-

Strange noises are noted from the upstairs hallway. It could possibly be my parents stirring at my disturbance of the stillness in our household's appropriated slumbering hours. My hypothesis? My mom will amble down the stairs and order me to sleep, and I will refuse. Who knows?

11:31 pm- I begin on my chemistry paper and replay Regina Spektor for the umpteenth time.

11:47 pm- Just starting the Introduction. What, you ask, do I have done? The data table and the Title Page. Yay. Luckily, I already wrote out my Introduction on paper! (Wow, this must be the most boring blog entry I've written. At least to an outsider. Sorry, sorry, whoever is reading this.)

12:00 am- Hey, the lab is due in 9 hours and 15 minutes!

12:27 am- I am rolling on a river of chemistry! I have finished the Introduction, the Materials List, the Method, and I am now working on the Results' Description. After this, all I have left is the Discussion (ooh, but that one's the biggie... the grade changer...) and the Conclusion (EASY!). So I'm good. I feel oddly energized, but just give me a few minutes and I'll be asleep. I'm going to have to wake up early tomorrow and check this whole paper anyways.

12:49 am- Just the Discussion and the Conclusion. I can do this. I can do this. I can... Ugh. Why can't I do this? I'll just write the conclusion before the discussion. Because it's easier.

1:00 am- How long have I been working on this? I started at around 11:30 pm... An hour and a half?!

1:38 am- The weariness is seeping in. Slowly, slowly, just as it seeps out in the mornings. But wait!- it is the morning. Even better: it is the morning of my last day of school before the long awaited Spring Break. I remember when, about 2 months ago, I prayed for the hasty arrival of this week. Now, I'm not so sure. Now, I wish time would just stop being so slow. Time goes so fast, and in the words of Jacob, "I'm here to slow the motherf*cker down."

1:51 am- PRINTING!! Now all I have to do is hole punch, correct everything, and fill in the handwritten calculations. OH HAPPY DAY... Or morning.

At Times You-At Times You Just Get So

So busy.

Spring break, o thine placebo of SHINING QUINTESSENCE!! How you are adored by yours truly; how I long for the quiet dispositions that come as a result of the slow, slow, fast days.

TAKE THAT, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Yeah, right. I scoff.

Maybe I should just start on that lab. Maybe I should just start on that lab. Maybe... I should just... start on that lab...

Nah.

In Gelterkinden, I Remember To Laugh

(And never, ever forgot it again.)

Tuesday.

So, technically Pi Day is March 14 at 1:59:26 but my school is celebrating it tomorrow because March 14 is a Sunday. And as cool as pi is, I am not waking up for it on a Sunday. Sorry, pi.

What a wonderful holiday. Being a complete and utterly shameless math nerd, I'm so glad that pi is recognized. You know, pi is pretty amazing when you consider it. It never stops. It always keeps going and going. Hell, at any given moment--HEY! Pi is currently STILL being calculated. Look at that constant go, baby! How marvelous! How formidable! How... How..... WORDS CANNOT DESCRIBE IT!

.

Oh, no wait not quite...

$$

OH MY GOD. I saw math equation SHIRTS on the internet! I am so getting those. And pi earrings. I'm so jealous of all of those lucky Mu Alpha Theta members and/or properly attired math enthusiasts. I wish to join the ranks. Aye, aye; I am ready with calculator in hand, Cap'n Factorial!

.

Life was kind of perfect today. I was so alarmed to see moments go so swimmingly, because I usually cringe at happiness and accept contentment with a lighter hand. No, but it was. As everyone stepped forward for Eucharist at Mass, I just noticed the way each person walked. Wine or no wine? Swagger? And the colours of their hair. The certain blondey, on his way back to his seat, gave (his little sister? A young friend of his?) a little tap on the shoulder, and the tiny girl turned to see. He was gone. I smiled.

So this closing title is fitting. I remembered to laugh. I will always forget, every day. But it's not chronic amnesia. I will be okay.

Thank you, world. For giving me a life without pain and a brain that houses much thought and lastly...

MATH!

I had to. Sue me.

In Dusseldorf, I Met A Clown

(With bad breath and a really good tan).

Last post, I swear. It's just a picture.

How amazing is that? I don't think she knows that. But it is.

I Should Have Held An Afterparty

(For all the thoughts I didn't say).

And thus is the consummation.

Goodmorning! So it's like a drug, the writing is. I don't know what an adjective clause is, I know I want to study literature this summer, and I know I don't want to work in anything with language because I'll go insane with "Why's?", but for now the writing is rare and keeps me insane. And I like my eggs scrambled.

I just gorged down too much food. I thought "TO HELL WITH IT. If I'm going to be fat, I'd rather be less fat because I'm young." I don't get it at all.

You see, though. When I look in the mirror, I don't see what people tell me. I see potential for ugliness and potential for picayune prettiness; I see all the components that could make me both ugly and pretty, but I can't separate a goose from a gander. It's all melded together and I can't tell. I really can't. But it doesn't bother me, all the sordid mortal things (WOW I SOUND NERD AND BITTER). It won't matter when I'm old and rich or poor and have a job. No one will care. But right now, it's all people care about. It's all they look at. That's all. We are too young to have internal organs or anything. Underdeveloped, we can't spell or think, we can smile perfectly fine but it won't work if you have ugly teeth. So you better not have ugly teeth, or you won't be good for ANYTHING!

And now I'm starting to think that I should stop writing for the night. It's 10:38, and it 20 years this same moment it will be 3:38 and the year after that will frequent the 4:00's and 5:00's and so on. I will become nocturnal. I can't wait! I'm tired of living this way. Like I'm young when I am. You see, it's so sad to see the 9-year-olds out in the street on their bikes. It makes me so sad. Because when I was 9-years-old, I was kept inside and wouldn't dream of asking for a moment of fresh air... by myself. That phrase had no place in my life then. It still barely does. I cannot even cross the street at night to ask my neighbor for eggs without being watched, and I am 15-years-old! It makes me so sad that I don't know what it's like to be outside and to be alone. Maybe that's why I like being alone. Because I'm sick and tired of NOT being alone, of being with EVERYONE and EVERYTIME and never being... alone. Outside. Just me and the sun. NO, not me, the sun, and the whole damned neighborhood breathing down my back like prisonguards. Just me. The Sun. The Moon. Goodnight.

In Corsica, I Floated Away

(All the way to Marseilles).

Sunday.

I'm making up for lost time with this post. I've felt un-thoughtful for the past week or so, but good ol' Chinaski got me back on track with his tales of booze and women. Funny stuff. I like it though, because although it's stark and mainly depressing, he tells stories in a way that is unpretentious enough that you feel as though you are there. And Romanticism is pretty, but his poetry is Romantic in the way that the doorknobs are sorrow, in the way that the wind is his friends, in the way that people don't live in houses but something different. Something special and horrid and sordid. It's like Romanticism, DEPPILF.

Isn't it lovely the way people were back then? Patriotic, young forever on the screens and speakers. They're all dead now. It's so sad. That they're all dead or slowly approaching that or halfway there in a bed tonight. It's not fair. We're given so little time. Or a lot. Maybe God is generous, but we're just greedy. Or maybe he's stingy and we're greedy. Either way, we're greedy.

Kind of wasting our time like I'm doing now. When I could be studying for English so that I keep my 97 average and could quite possibly have the highest grade in the class, in the school, and quite possibly get into Cornell where it won't matter if I'm fat or skinny or if I wear glasses because when I walk in the hallway, I have somewhere to be. No one will care if I spend my hours studying math and eating frosting by the gallons and puking, because I'm studying! I'm going somewhere. But that won't happen if I continue to type. So I continue to type.

And it's weird. I wonder what it will feel like, however many years from now (One? Twentytwo? Sixtythree?) when I'm on my deathbed or my deathwhatever and I look back at all the moments I spent just spending. Not with anyone in particular, just being. What will I think? I know that when I reach that point, and there's nothing I can do, I'll be regretful. Not because I wasted my time and didn't accomplish what I wanted to, but because it's a shame I couldn't just live 20 lives and be 20 people and know 20 stories so well. That's why we have Humanity, so we can vicariously live those other 19 lives. And then we won't feel so bad on our deathbeds, because we've lived so much life. That's why I love strangers.

Today at Mass, I looked at all of the people receiving Communion. They were old and young and babies and boys and girls and fat and ugly and pretty and bored and tired and justanotherSundaychurchgo-er. But they all had something to tell me. All of them. Something. Maybe that time that this happen, and now Rubik's Cubes make them think of a girl named Sally. Or how pine trees make them think of their old teacher, Mr. Kauffman. Or how the book "The Great Gatsby" makes them think of warm summer afternoons in the parlor, back in 1956. They all could tell me this. I'd listen and I'd love their stories. Because I think it's odd how everything brings to mind everything else. And I want to know it all! All of it! Why and how and when and the who's, especially.

And you know what else is weird? I found out today how murders happen. It's all because of... undergarments. Yes, undergarments! Just hear me out:

So today, I was fussing with my, erm, undergarment strap, and it was refusing to cooperate. It was early in the morning, I was tired, and I needed to change for Mass.

"COME ON, YOU STUPID THING! Just work! I swear, I'ma kill someone!"

Then I stopped dead in my tracks. ERRRR.

I've always hated that term. "I'll kill ya!" "I could just kill someone right now!" "Kill, kill, kill." I don't want to be a damp blanket, but that phrase is so morbid. I know it's a joke, and no one is really serious when they say it, but it makes me shiver. Because that's how it happens. A real killer, lying dormant beneath the suckling skin, is fussing with his, erm, undergarment strap and he's late for Mass (Yes, killers have gods--they just don't pay as close attention to homilies) and the stupid thing won't work.

"COME ON, YOU STUPID THING! Just work! I swear, I'ma kill someone!"

Later, there is an obituary with a young face and someone buys the newspaper and sees it and says to his buddy, "What a shame. What a sick word. What a sick person. Musta been a helluva sunuvabich." They walk on.

No, no. He wasn't. But the stupid strap wasn't working! And he made an ultimatum with fate, as we so often do: Do this, and I'll do this.

Honestly, it happens. Why couldn't he just have gone commando and saved a life?

"Sunday Morning Coming Down"

I hate blackberry pancakes.

Who puts blackberries in pancakes?

Blackberries aren't like blueberries;

They're big and mushy and black and too sour for a pancake

for the a.m., they wake me up too fast

when I don't want to be lucid.

That's why I was mad when I said that to my dad.

"I hate blackberry pancakes."

"Fine." He replied, equally as stubborn.

I marched away in time,

and ended up somewhere

in the stupid radius of my house;

with no where else to go.

I came back an hour and a half later

with some real hunger in my stomach

and looked around for those damned blackberry pancakes.

There were none.

I was mad.

How dare they not save me pancakes!

thinks my mind.

I grumble on and on, mutely,

about the gravity of the situation.

Me! I want my damned blackberry pancakes!

Then I see them, sitting politely on the counter.

They heard it all.

Sheepishly, I perambulate towards the stack of pancakes.

Sorry.

Silence ensues.

Hey, I said I was sorry. What more do you want?

Pancakes are so uptight.

They just sat there

Stared back with their ugly blackberry stains

Kind of bringing to mind ugly birthmarks.

They work me up, y'know,

Just keeping so painstakingly still and silent

So the silence grows and even builds a dynasty

In that time.

I just give up,

I go to the refrigerator

And get a damned Coca-Cola

And suck away at the damned Coca-Cola

Like I just opened happiness itself.

I gloat it in front of the pile of pancakes.

I smirk inwardly as the ugly, birthmarked, stained, silent, awkward

Pile of pancakes stares back.

It wasn't until my mother said something to me

That I had realized

I had just spent my morning moments

With pancakes.

And even then,

We still couldn't agree on anything.