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!