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Faced with the unutterable, words still disintigrate...
And ever new, out of the most quivering stones, music builds her divine house in useless space.
-Rilke
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I am moody.
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[I am not very good at html]
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sometimes i wish... [a blog]
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Thursday, March 21, 2002
2 million drunk bostonians are getting ready to sing auld lang sine out of tune
i feel like part of an underground circle of depressed bitter beautiful people.
i guess noticing pretense will do that to you.
i should really submit some of my poetrywriting to the Educator, especially me being the editor in cheif and all. too bad AP sucks desire to be involved in literature out of me. I really wanted to enjoy Mrs. Dalloway and then I had to finish reading it. It was way better than Pride and Predjudice. It was good in fact; I don't care what the rest of the class says [at least while I'm sheltered from most of them]. I really thought it good and I would've really enjoyed it if I had had time to read it. a few days in summer.
but yeah, i wrote some poetry, and some of a short story, but then my ibook got erased. bastard macintoshes.
at least I'll do some music.
oh, and i'm no good at putting pictures on pages anyway. i should try and find some media that i can actually manipulate. maybe mixed media. maybe "found object." heh. this is "dog poo with blade of grass on leaves." heh. maybe i'll spray paint some wood and glue on neat things and throw some acrylic on top of it. or maybe i'll fingerpaint.
I think i should give a shout out to Sarah. she is pretty. beautiful even. as seen in her paintings. as seen in her unconventionality. as seen in her hair. as seen in Bjork. there you go Sarah, there are your props. i had to give them. props. heh.
sometimes i want to rip out my intestines and staple them to some cardboard. that i might show people what i am made of. yes, that i am a human being. rip open my rib cage and view the pulsating of blood. see the expanding lungs filling my blood with with oxygen. see the blood take the oxygen go to my brain. see the brain dream of powering my hand to shatter so many shells. so many shells. but they could be so much more. not that i am. maybe i am only a shell. maybe this is all fake. maybe i am fake.
if i could connect myself to a turntable with a reverse IV i wonder what it would sound like.
if i could see them naked i wonder what they would say.
if i was naked i wonder what they would say.
i wonder if i could run screaming through the halls,
"this is not everything. you are more than a potential employee. look around. smell. taste. touch. sing. dance. cry. economy is not life. you can change everything from inside. you are beautiful. you are loved."
if anyone would understand.
because a budget doesn't mean maturity.
financial independance is not freedom.
and i hardly believe anything i say. i hardly know what to say. because i question myself. because no one is sure. and the more i think, the less i know. i want to show and tell what i know and what i am not sure of.
i feel like part of an underground circle of depressed, bitter, beautiful people.
i guess noticing pretense will do that.
8:37 PM
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