Tonight I cannot say anything new. I spent the night looking over my diary, and looking back I am surprised by how unbelievable my life seems, and how quickly so much of it changed. There is too little time to explain. So tonight, nothing new. Only reflections of the people that kept me writing. Nothing is worth more than this day. No matter...nothing is worth more than this night. Night is where we reflect, it's when the blogs get written, it's the aftereffect. But of how long? One day? Maybe a few hours? What about forever? When do we look back, when do we know it's time to look back? I didn't want to look back tonight. I wanted to move forward, chase the dream, take on the extraordinary and get a few steps ahead. But instead I got caught by the line I wrote in the beginning of my diary: though I am sure the following pages will be filled quickly with both good and terrible things, in this first page, all I will say is I swear fear will not keep me from filling the book. Then the truly terrible thing will occur, if the pages rae not filled. So bring on the day, and go gentle with the night. Just remember whatever happens, to write it down.
Sometimes promises are much harder to keep than we originally think, even the noble ones.
So this entry is dedicated to thanking those that inspired me to keep writing, no matter what happened. You recognized the importance of writing to me, and also the pain it caused to relive memories through something as bold and believeable as a skeleton of words. Reading back over my diary has helped me realize that time is nothing to writing, especially in a form such as a blog or a journal, where every entry is the present. This is a blog of the past. I promised not to say anything new. I keep that promise tonight, on this page. But tomorrow, a new skeleton will begin.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Bloody fingerprints
It's that time of night when I'm ready to admit a few things. I don't know how much more I can say than that without becoming erratic or emotional or staring off into space. I do a lot of things in threes, so maybe I'll do all of those. I don't want to disappoint my parents. I don't want to disappoint my family. I don't want to get that look from my friends, but I especially don't want to miss the looks from the friends I haven't met yet. I don't want to put more importance on my writing than it really can handle, but I don't want my brother to lose hope in everything because I forgot to write. I'm beginning to lose hope in pure states. Don't say love is one of them. I wish lying to parents so I will not disappoint them did not disappoint me because our relationship was not strong enough to handle truth. Where has all the sunlight gone?
How amazing it feels just to live again
I wish I could remember things in order, but where would the interest in that be? So I'll just jump out with random memories from this weekend/week, and you can piece together anything you want, skip over whatever you want. Consider it a treasure hunt. Fiction, lies, non fiction, truth, make your own rules. Read backwards. If only I had blue eyes, more pretty songs would be written about me. Playing Boston housewife for the weekend, the womenfolk took care of the cookies while the menfolk (?) searched in vain for an all-nighter log. Listen to me, girl's can read too. Turn on the taps and flush the toilets when I say GO! Why didn't you get a picture of me with the electric saw? Sadly maybe the critics were right: an adult fairytale is 3/4ths war with 1/4 fairytale, and that's the closest they can get. The saddest part of that movie was when the captain couldn't see the faun. If you hear a boom, you are instructed to get your shotguns from under the bed and shoot me. Maybe it would have been better to put the spaceheater in the bed, like a lapdog. Trouble, don't get any ideas, you still have to do homework tonight. Jagerbombs and techno grinding versus hot tea and hotter jazz. I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words. Spectacular spectacular! There's something to be said about the garlic in the utensil drawer, and nothing to be said about snow melting off the skylight, because I don't want you to have it. Steep the tea. That's quite a nice purse, did you get it in Germany? Did you ever have the perfect race? So let's take a poll on lifelike listening...who actually cares? If that isn't a dealbreaker, I give you guys at least a few more years.
Now this is serious: If your future depends on hearing back on an e-mail from a professor about a class, it might be wise to stay near a computer for the weekend, because you don't want to lose opportunities. But since that same line could be used to justify what you did your entire weekend INSTEAD of staying near a computer, don't be hypocritical. Just have a mad dance party with your roommate to let off the steam of finding out, at 9:23pm, that if you had e-mailed your essay to your professor by 5:00 that afternoon, you would have been in advanced fiction.
Well you'll never find it. If your looking for it.
Now this is serious: If your future depends on hearing back on an e-mail from a professor about a class, it might be wise to stay near a computer for the weekend, because you don't want to lose opportunities. But since that same line could be used to justify what you did your entire weekend INSTEAD of staying near a computer, don't be hypocritical. Just have a mad dance party with your roommate to let off the steam of finding out, at 9:23pm, that if you had e-mailed your essay to your professor by 5:00 that afternoon, you would have been in advanced fiction.
Well you'll never find it. If your looking for it.
Friday, January 19, 2007
to my girls, forever
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I will never be like you, Miss Bishop. My friends, they will never lose me. I will not turn back the clocks, wishing for more time--because I always know there is time to come. I will write them letters, even if they do not respond. I will call, even if they do not pick up. (that's for you, sand) And I will buy posters and tickets and hitchhike to see concerts even if the show is 6 hours away (that's for you, linds). And I will open up my eyes and heart and love and be hurt but have the confidence to try again and again even though it's against my nature all because you taught me this, and I would be a dishonor to you if I didn't try (always for you, Kel). I may not be able to hold onto you forever, and i may not be convincing you now, but know I will be there, forever, because you have been there for me even when I could not hear you and could not see you.
Hell I don't think I even know everything they have done for me, but you know what? They don't know everything I have done for them, either. But I would do it again and again, and I will. So will they. That, cannot be lost.
Perhaps you are right, Miss Bishop. Perhaps the art of losing isn't hard to master.
But I guess I'll never know.
I will never be like you, Miss Bishop. My friends, they will never lose me. I will not turn back the clocks, wishing for more time--because I always know there is time to come. I will write them letters, even if they do not respond. I will call, even if they do not pick up. (that's for you, sand) And I will buy posters and tickets and hitchhike to see concerts even if the show is 6 hours away (that's for you, linds). And I will open up my eyes and heart and love and be hurt but have the confidence to try again and again even though it's against my nature all because you taught me this, and I would be a dishonor to you if I didn't try (always for you, Kel). I may not be able to hold onto you forever, and i may not be convincing you now, but know I will be there, forever, because you have been there for me even when I could not hear you and could not see you.
Hell I don't think I even know everything they have done for me, but you know what? They don't know everything I have done for them, either. But I would do it again and again, and I will. So will they. That, cannot be lost.
Perhaps you are right, Miss Bishop. Perhaps the art of losing isn't hard to master.
But I guess I'll never know.
Friday, January 12, 2007
To you
Believe. Believe in me, for I believe in you.
Believe in the proof that I am real, for the photo does not lie unless you want it to. Believe in me all you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the hand on your back, the slow kiss on your neck, the warm heart beating faster, unless you do not want to. Believe in me if you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the challenge, those spoken and left unsaid (yes it's complicated.) Believe in me if you're up for it, for I believe in you.
Believe in perfection but know that it is only achieved by hiding the faults (the veil is much more beautiful when seen from a distance, but we still wish to pull it away). Believe in me if you can understand that, for I believe in you.
Believe in who you are (don't cheat yourself, i'll say it again). Believe in who. you. are. Believe in me if you believe in who you are, for I believe in you.
Believe in the power of a raindrop, a penny, and a single musical note, for they have all made a difference in my world. Believe in the smallest differences in me, for I believe in you.
Believe for the tiniest moment that this is not me (this is you). Believe that this is you, writing to me. Believe in me as I believe in you when I see the words: message (1) and know that for the tiniest moment you are real.
(oh how could I forget!)
Believe in me like tinkerbell. Believe in me if you believe in fairytales, for I believe in you.
Believe. Believe in me, for I believe in you.
Believe in the proof that I am real, for the photo does not lie unless you want it to. Believe in me all you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the hand on your back, the slow kiss on your neck, the warm heart beating faster, unless you do not want to. Believe in me if you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the challenge, those spoken and left unsaid (yes it's complicated.) Believe in me if you're up for it, for I believe in you.
Believe in perfection but know that it is only achieved by hiding the faults (the veil is much more beautiful when seen from a distance, but we still wish to pull it away). Believe in me if you can understand that, for I believe in you.
Believe in who you are (don't cheat yourself, i'll say it again). Believe in who. you. are. Believe in me if you believe in who you are, for I believe in you.
Believe in the power of a raindrop, a penny, and a single musical note, for they have all made a difference in my world. Believe in the smallest differences in me, for I believe in you.
Believe for the tiniest moment that this is not me (this is you). Believe that this is you, writing to me. Believe in me as I believe in you when I see the words: message (1) and know that for the tiniest moment you are real.
(oh how could I forget!)
Believe in me like tinkerbell. Believe in me if you believe in fairytales, for I believe in you.
Believe. Believe in me, for I believe in you.
Temporarily Out of Order
I miss running. A lot. Saying that aquajogging has the same effects as running is almost as bad as saying a waffle covered in ice cream is as good as sex, it's just bad analogies, bad puns and bad common sense all around. The company is infinitely better when running--for one, there usually is no company, or if you really want to get poetic, you can count on the companies of trees, forgiving trails, not so forgiving asphalt or the occasional courageous squirrel. The pool confines me to Danny DeVito-in-a-speedo watching my water acrobatics for 10 minutes before finally asking "So, are you running or something?" NO! I'm NOT running, who the hell would run, in a pool that has waves of hot and cold sections (let's not think about that too much, especially the rather warm section next to Danny D) when there's a road, a path, for gods sakes EARTH right outside the door, making me only one promise: it will get me as far away from YOU, and this glorified chlorinated pond scum as quickly as possible! I want to pound the shit out of my body and into the concrete and free myself for just a little while. I want to be on the brink of losing conciousness, I want to fight, fight against the wind or a hill or ongoing traffic, a cocky stranger on a bicycle, you, me, fuck, anything, anywhere, anytime, because I never fight anywhere else. I need to fight or else resign to the fact that life is just a highway and running is just another way to take a lap. If that's the case, then running and swimming should have no problems replacing one another. But if you mean to tell me, honestly, that running requires any calling from within, any passion whatsoever, then I never, ever, want to hear that swimming has the same benefits as running again.
Tomorrow is another day, and let's face facts: It's not likely that I will be healthy enough to push the pavement. So, Round 2?
I'm pissed, i'm enraged, i'm ready to bite my sister's hamster's head off and stick it in the chlorine filter just to get a laugh when the aquaqueens in their frilly skirts get a nice little surprise.
I'll do it. But I'm not going to like it.
Tomorrow is another day, and let's face facts: It's not likely that I will be healthy enough to push the pavement. So, Round 2?
I'm pissed, i'm enraged, i'm ready to bite my sister's hamster's head off and stick it in the chlorine filter just to get a laugh when the aquaqueens in their frilly skirts get a nice little surprise.
I'll do it. But I'm not going to like it.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Death of a Black Star
I didn't get a chance to read my horoscope this morning, so I'm a bit lost. I didn't know if I was supposed to exercise, i didn't know if I was supposed to beware of beehives or creative impulses, and I certainly wasn't warned about the time traveling that was going to occur between 7:25 and 8:21 at night.
I went through a whole mysterious flow of "this time _______ ago". For example, this time a week ago, I was admiring a gifted linguist's ability to capture my family's hearts and attention over chinese takeout. This time a year ago, I was getting ready for my final state championship indoor race of my high school career and talking to one of my future teammates. I've learned my lessons: i'm a bit more gifted at dinner entertainment and a much wiser runner, living and learning and moving on to the next day. I'm still talking with the future teammate (who is now my present teammate). He is one of my first examples of people I have become closer to over the internet rather than face to face, and this created quite an interesting situation when we finally talked in person. It wasn't very comfortable. We've reverted back to our internet-speak, and I think both of us prefer that. I like it because he's a pretty straightforward philosophizer once he gets talking past 10:00 at night. I'm not sure why he likes it...
Tonight's topic: feelings. He said I could write the feelings chapter in his future book "bad decisions and what we could have done to prevent them". I'm going to take this as a compliment, and leave it at that. I don't think it's appropriate at the time for me to start spilling out feelings on the internet, so for the record I'll just go with the statement that I have no feelings. Ever. This chapter is going to be a bitch to write.
One thing I am willing to write about though is the idea that "life can always get worse". Now, why is that such a comforting statement? For one, by making that statement, it is almost certain that the situation is going to become worse. And even if the situation does not get worse, thinking about a worse situation is not going to make you feel better. It's positively satanic! "Oh, it's only a scratch, you realize you could have gotten your arm chopped off, life can always get worse." Oh yeah, that's really peachy. When trying to get a firm head after a scrape against a guardrail on the highway, I do not want to be reminded of how close I was to toppling over the edge and almost certain death. I also want to point out that the person who usually says the cliche line is an outsider, like a policeman or a parent. And of course, for them, life could have gotten worse...they could have been in your position! It all ties into one of my favorite philosophical ideas: schadenfreunde. It's a German psychology word meaning pleasure derived from another person's pain, not because you are causing the pain, but because you are not the one in pain. See, the "life can always get worse" motif is not for the benefit of the traumatized person, but for the observer. Life can always get worse...see? But it wasn't your life this time! That's schadenfreunde. I had what I thought was a really good idea to write a book that showed schadenfreunde at it's ultimate levels, but then I realized sadly that almost every book already showed it, if you knew what to look for. Before I resigned myself to literary obscurity, I realized that even though my philosophical passion had been covered before, that didn't prevent me from writing another story about it. Shakespeare stole the hearts of centuries with his stories of passion and love, but that didn't stop following writers from taking their own stab at transposing feeling into words. Feelings into words....is it possible? I should remember to refer back to Shakespeare when I'm writing the chapter for "bad decisions". Maybe it will spark some ideas.
The story of the day:
There are three things my father told me. One was never think for yourself, ever—let his designated superiors make all the decisions, because they are older and smarter and wiser. Two was don’t try too hard, it’s not worth your time or effort. Three was simple: never get married.
I went through a whole mysterious flow of "this time _______ ago". For example, this time a week ago, I was admiring a gifted linguist's ability to capture my family's hearts and attention over chinese takeout. This time a year ago, I was getting ready for my final state championship indoor race of my high school career and talking to one of my future teammates. I've learned my lessons: i'm a bit more gifted at dinner entertainment and a much wiser runner, living and learning and moving on to the next day. I'm still talking with the future teammate (who is now my present teammate). He is one of my first examples of people I have become closer to over the internet rather than face to face, and this created quite an interesting situation when we finally talked in person. It wasn't very comfortable. We've reverted back to our internet-speak, and I think both of us prefer that. I like it because he's a pretty straightforward philosophizer once he gets talking past 10:00 at night. I'm not sure why he likes it...
Tonight's topic: feelings. He said I could write the feelings chapter in his future book "bad decisions and what we could have done to prevent them". I'm going to take this as a compliment, and leave it at that. I don't think it's appropriate at the time for me to start spilling out feelings on the internet, so for the record I'll just go with the statement that I have no feelings. Ever. This chapter is going to be a bitch to write.
One thing I am willing to write about though is the idea that "life can always get worse". Now, why is that such a comforting statement? For one, by making that statement, it is almost certain that the situation is going to become worse. And even if the situation does not get worse, thinking about a worse situation is not going to make you feel better. It's positively satanic! "Oh, it's only a scratch, you realize you could have gotten your arm chopped off, life can always get worse." Oh yeah, that's really peachy. When trying to get a firm head after a scrape against a guardrail on the highway, I do not want to be reminded of how close I was to toppling over the edge and almost certain death. I also want to point out that the person who usually says the cliche line is an outsider, like a policeman or a parent. And of course, for them, life could have gotten worse...they could have been in your position! It all ties into one of my favorite philosophical ideas: schadenfreunde. It's a German psychology word meaning pleasure derived from another person's pain, not because you are causing the pain, but because you are not the one in pain. See, the "life can always get worse" motif is not for the benefit of the traumatized person, but for the observer. Life can always get worse...see? But it wasn't your life this time! That's schadenfreunde. I had what I thought was a really good idea to write a book that showed schadenfreunde at it's ultimate levels, but then I realized sadly that almost every book already showed it, if you knew what to look for. Before I resigned myself to literary obscurity, I realized that even though my philosophical passion had been covered before, that didn't prevent me from writing another story about it. Shakespeare stole the hearts of centuries with his stories of passion and love, but that didn't stop following writers from taking their own stab at transposing feeling into words. Feelings into words....is it possible? I should remember to refer back to Shakespeare when I'm writing the chapter for "bad decisions". Maybe it will spark some ideas.
The story of the day:
There are three things my father told me. One was never think for yourself, ever—let his designated superiors make all the decisions, because they are older and smarter and wiser. Two was don’t try too hard, it’s not worth your time or effort. Three was simple: never get married.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Swingset Symphonies
Day 2 of Blogging, and I don't know what to say.
I never did write for other people to read it, which I know is silly. Writing is communicating, and if all I do is write and hide the pages, who am I communicating to? I once heard about a writer who burnt everything she wrote, just to make sure no one could ever read it. For about a decade, I'd say I was as close to that as I could get without lighting a match.
The only way I can account for this is to point out that I was communicating, and you might ask who to? Well, to me, or several selfs. I'm not bipolar or a schizophrenic, but I have noticed a difference between the voice I hear talking and the voice in my head, the multiple layers of god-knows-what protecting god-knows-who (I certainly don't) and the fact that I'm starting to believe more and more that Vonnegut was describing us all when he said Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time. Crazy, I know, right? No, not really. It's not such a crazy thought when as a 10 year old you came up with the theory that there had been a mix-up in the reincarnation charts when you swore you met your reincarnated self in the form of a duck that liked Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. So now tell me, exactly who do you want communicating with the outside world? The voice in my head, the voice in my throat, the person floating around in time, or the duck?
Writing is one of the only forms of communication I've found that bridges the gaps in me. Running has worked well in the past, and of course I tried the whole confiding in other people thing, but that has become more and more difficult as time goes on. I'll be having a conversation, see, and it's all going well and good, and it's time for me to make the clever remark, right? So I open up the door, ready to pull out some awesome critique or new topic, and the only thing I encounter is the hum of thoughts wizzing by. They go in one ear and....don't fly straight, so they usually end up getting caught up in some pinball wizardry. Don't look at me funny next time I respond with a sound. Sometimes, that's all I've got to work with.
So to those of you who are reading this and know me, I am sorry for the trainwrecks I am causing, have caused, and always am going to cause. To those of you that don't know me and are reading this, watch from a distance--there are sure to be fireworks.
I never did write for other people to read it, which I know is silly. Writing is communicating, and if all I do is write and hide the pages, who am I communicating to? I once heard about a writer who burnt everything she wrote, just to make sure no one could ever read it. For about a decade, I'd say I was as close to that as I could get without lighting a match.
The only way I can account for this is to point out that I was communicating, and you might ask who to? Well, to me, or several selfs. I'm not bipolar or a schizophrenic, but I have noticed a difference between the voice I hear talking and the voice in my head, the multiple layers of god-knows-what protecting god-knows-who (I certainly don't) and the fact that I'm starting to believe more and more that Vonnegut was describing us all when he said Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time. Crazy, I know, right? No, not really. It's not such a crazy thought when as a 10 year old you came up with the theory that there had been a mix-up in the reincarnation charts when you swore you met your reincarnated self in the form of a duck that liked Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. So now tell me, exactly who do you want communicating with the outside world? The voice in my head, the voice in my throat, the person floating around in time, or the duck?
Writing is one of the only forms of communication I've found that bridges the gaps in me. Running has worked well in the past, and of course I tried the whole confiding in other people thing, but that has become more and more difficult as time goes on. I'll be having a conversation, see, and it's all going well and good, and it's time for me to make the clever remark, right? So I open up the door, ready to pull out some awesome critique or new topic, and the only thing I encounter is the hum of thoughts wizzing by. They go in one ear and....don't fly straight, so they usually end up getting caught up in some pinball wizardry. Don't look at me funny next time I respond with a sound. Sometimes, that's all I've got to work with.
So to those of you who are reading this and know me, I am sorry for the trainwrecks I am causing, have caused, and always am going to cause. To those of you that don't know me and are reading this, watch from a distance--there are sure to be fireworks.
Monday, January 8, 2007
You have your cherry coke, I have my cold meds, and this is what happens:
Daddy’s Daily Chores
1. Break a Heart:
First, you lay it on a table, clamped between two corn cob picks, salted and buttered to your own preference. Carefully then take a bite from the meatiest section, being especially careful to puncture through the top layer. Creating a good size opening, the heart will begin to unfold, revealing soft tissue tied together by pink satin ribbons. To keep the heart shape, you have to move fast with the next part: fill the hole with cement. Once it has dried, go to the tallest building you can find (at least 12 stories) and drop the heart off. Aim carefully. Statistics prove you only have the ability to hit one person and cause significant damage.
2. Lose your Marbles:
Start with a collection of marbles. Do not count them. Glue them onto a wide brimmed hat or just let them roll around in the cupped edges. Put a trampoline in the back of a pickup truck and ask a friend to drive the truck (you will need assistance: do not attempt to drive the truck and bounce on the trampoline at the same time, you will lose more than the marbles). Hat securely tied to your head (you do not want to lose it) your friend will gradually pick up speed over a nice, flat, preferably suburban road. Then ask him/ her to gun it. Begin to bounce on the trampoline. You will feel the marbles coming out of your hat. Do not be alarmed.
3. Bring Home the Bacon:
Just bend over backwards and grab a snack on the way out.
4. Get over the Hill:
Lasso forty porcupines together, dog-sled style. Using stomped out trashcan lids and fishing wire, construct a sled and harness for the porcupines. Sit in the sled. The porcupines will know what to do (they are very talented creatures) and they will pull you up to the top of the hill. Porcupines, though, are very similar to cows (meaning, of course, that though both animals are very agile at climbing up things, they do not have the ability to climb down); thankfully porcupines have a nice little built-in system. To complete your mission, all you have to do is poke the porcupines so they curl up into balls and begin, through gravity, to roll down the other side of the hill. The trashcan lids should suffice to protect your skin from puncture wounds, so just ride down the hill on tops of the rolling porcupines.
5. Get Rid of the Weakest Link:
Kill your younger sister.
6. Give Yourself a Few Weeks to Live:
Don’t. Give yourself more. It makes no sense to be greedy internally.
7. Bend over Backwards:
Go to a butcher shop, preferably in working order. Among the racks of lamb and hanging hinds of cows and pigs, find two hooks that are unused, next to one another. If this is not readily available, eat two hanging slabs of meat when the store owner is not looking. Grab onto the hooks and pull yourself upside down, looping your feet into the hooks. When hanging, let all the blood rush to your head. You know you have done this long enough when everything in the room begins to look spotted and red and veiny, just like your neighborly hanging flesh. At this point, begin to bend your back so you form a J shape. The blood will begin to slide towards your stomach. This will aid in digestion. Digestion of meat takes four to six hours, if you have that much stamina, go for it. If not just hang until you feel less like a hanging slab of meat, because really, no slab of meat ever unhooks itself and walks around.
When you leave the shop, don’t forget to leave sufficient money to pay for the meat you ate. That is the kind thing to do.
8. Swim with the Sharks:
Tell your secrets to no one. In fact, tell nothing to nobody. Live lies. Secrets eat out your insides, from the pads of your fingers to the curve of your knee. You will become hollow, no substance, just an outline. Kind of like one of those police sketches for fallen bodies. In order to attract the sharks, you will have to drop in some of those bodies that were sketched—the police have the outline, that’s all they need. You need the rest for this endeavor. Sharks come, you jump in. Empty or not, the sharks will like you. Friendly animals, they are. You will probably be eaten, substance-free or not. Wear gloves.
9. Get the Ball in your Court:
Kill your older sister.
10. Think Outside the Box:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
11. Fall off the Edge of the World:
Mooch off your parents for an Ivy League education, then forget your mother’s birthday.
12. Mix Oil and Vinegar:
Put the younger sister and older sister in the backyard, properly contained with a wooden picket fence, but one that is easily scaled in case of an emergency. Observe: they will start by sniffing around each other, stepping softly, aware of the other one but no direct contact (notice as well that they never, ever expose their backs). It will start as a celebration: friendship, youth, and the similar plea for personal space. The change will start simply. The older sister nonchalantly picks up the younger sister’s Barbie. Young Sister looks directly at Old Sister for the first time. Old Sister, having seen this change, throws the Barbie up into the tree, where its hair tangles with the needle roof, and remains airborne. The mixture of two parts loathing, one part misunderstanding and one part action (coming from both sisters) will be exactly opposite and thus, exactly perfect.
13. Make a Close Call:
Three more feet and the car would have been your coffin, but make sure those three feet exist.
14. Make Ends Meet:
Thread spider webs through the freckles on your left arm and pull tightly, bunching up the skin like a piece of elastic. Do not waste any material. Ask the next person down the line to carefully begin threading through your right arm, connecting the freckles—in order to do this at the utmost efficiency and waste the least amount of web, you must put your arms in front of you like a genie. When they have finished, your neighbor will begin the process again on themselves, using the same thread, thus connecting you two together in the same genie stance. This will continue down the line with each person until it creates an even, unbroken line of ridged skin, even shoulders and uneven glares (some can take threading more easily than others). The final person will not be able to complete the process, as he has no neighbor to thread his right arm to his left. He will be lost, and the feelings of an uncompleted task will ripple down the thread and tremble in the tiniest crevices between each neighbor’s shoulders. This situation must be remedied. You know what to do, and begin to turn slowly inward, pulling your neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, and so on, to create an arc. The final person does the same, pulling the neighbors, as you two inch farther away from the original line and closer to each other. Once next to each other, you have created a circle, yet still have no way of threading the web through the final person’s arms. The End stands just like everyone else, still trembling and causing the thread to shake. With your right hand you clasp his forearm to ease the shaking, and form a much stronger bond that webs ever could, or can, or will.
15. Even Out the Playing Field:
Mix oil and vinegar, but this time, Young Sister throws the Barbie in the air.
16. Make Love:
Walk along the Charles River with a perfect stranger as the sun begins to rise. The skyline illuminates, the golden curls licking the water between the shadows of the buildings, creating a perfect outline in the water of the reality on the land. It’s quiet, except for the creak of the swings in an imaginary breeze. You don’t know her. She doesn’t know you. But you share the skyline, share the curls, separate the water and share the sunrise. In the clasped hands of you and her, a tiny electricity of song hits you both, three times quick. She’s not such a perfect stranger anymore.
17. State the Obvious:
Your freckles can be connected to map out the route from Alaska to your own front door.
18. See Eye to Eye:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
19. Reach Cloud 9:
Find yourself in the middle of the woods. Surrounded by trees, you break free of the needle roof in a small clearing, the green-flushed grass welcoming you. Lie down in the middle. You can feel them (this is familiar). There are people, lying down with you. There are four of you. Creating a pinwheel with your heads at the center, you cannot see each other. From the sky you all make a star. No matter that you cannot see each other. Seeing and feeling and touching and tasting and hearing, what are they but surface-level misconceptions? You are. You be. They are there. You see the half moon and full sky, together. One eye. You feel the tingle of grass on your spines, together. One spine. You touch the uneven soil underneath the grass with the tips of your fingers, together. One finger. You taste the life of trees, together. One breath. You hear the contented whispers of buried souls underneath you, the ones who had lain in the same spot before you and refused to go, and thus been eroded and buried, together. One.
1. Break a Heart:
First, you lay it on a table, clamped between two corn cob picks, salted and buttered to your own preference. Carefully then take a bite from the meatiest section, being especially careful to puncture through the top layer. Creating a good size opening, the heart will begin to unfold, revealing soft tissue tied together by pink satin ribbons. To keep the heart shape, you have to move fast with the next part: fill the hole with cement. Once it has dried, go to the tallest building you can find (at least 12 stories) and drop the heart off. Aim carefully. Statistics prove you only have the ability to hit one person and cause significant damage.
2. Lose your Marbles:
Start with a collection of marbles. Do not count them. Glue them onto a wide brimmed hat or just let them roll around in the cupped edges. Put a trampoline in the back of a pickup truck and ask a friend to drive the truck (you will need assistance: do not attempt to drive the truck and bounce on the trampoline at the same time, you will lose more than the marbles). Hat securely tied to your head (you do not want to lose it) your friend will gradually pick up speed over a nice, flat, preferably suburban road. Then ask him/ her to gun it. Begin to bounce on the trampoline. You will feel the marbles coming out of your hat. Do not be alarmed.
3. Bring Home the Bacon:
Just bend over backwards and grab a snack on the way out.
4. Get over the Hill:
Lasso forty porcupines together, dog-sled style. Using stomped out trashcan lids and fishing wire, construct a sled and harness for the porcupines. Sit in the sled. The porcupines will know what to do (they are very talented creatures) and they will pull you up to the top of the hill. Porcupines, though, are very similar to cows (meaning, of course, that though both animals are very agile at climbing up things, they do not have the ability to climb down); thankfully porcupines have a nice little built-in system. To complete your mission, all you have to do is poke the porcupines so they curl up into balls and begin, through gravity, to roll down the other side of the hill. The trashcan lids should suffice to protect your skin from puncture wounds, so just ride down the hill on tops of the rolling porcupines.
5. Get Rid of the Weakest Link:
Kill your younger sister.
6. Give Yourself a Few Weeks to Live:
Don’t. Give yourself more. It makes no sense to be greedy internally.
7. Bend over Backwards:
Go to a butcher shop, preferably in working order. Among the racks of lamb and hanging hinds of cows and pigs, find two hooks that are unused, next to one another. If this is not readily available, eat two hanging slabs of meat when the store owner is not looking. Grab onto the hooks and pull yourself upside down, looping your feet into the hooks. When hanging, let all the blood rush to your head. You know you have done this long enough when everything in the room begins to look spotted and red and veiny, just like your neighborly hanging flesh. At this point, begin to bend your back so you form a J shape. The blood will begin to slide towards your stomach. This will aid in digestion. Digestion of meat takes four to six hours, if you have that much stamina, go for it. If not just hang until you feel less like a hanging slab of meat, because really, no slab of meat ever unhooks itself and walks around.
When you leave the shop, don’t forget to leave sufficient money to pay for the meat you ate. That is the kind thing to do.
8. Swim with the Sharks:
Tell your secrets to no one. In fact, tell nothing to nobody. Live lies. Secrets eat out your insides, from the pads of your fingers to the curve of your knee. You will become hollow, no substance, just an outline. Kind of like one of those police sketches for fallen bodies. In order to attract the sharks, you will have to drop in some of those bodies that were sketched—the police have the outline, that’s all they need. You need the rest for this endeavor. Sharks come, you jump in. Empty or not, the sharks will like you. Friendly animals, they are. You will probably be eaten, substance-free or not. Wear gloves.
9. Get the Ball in your Court:
Kill your older sister.
10. Think Outside the Box:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
11. Fall off the Edge of the World:
Mooch off your parents for an Ivy League education, then forget your mother’s birthday.
12. Mix Oil and Vinegar:
Put the younger sister and older sister in the backyard, properly contained with a wooden picket fence, but one that is easily scaled in case of an emergency. Observe: they will start by sniffing around each other, stepping softly, aware of the other one but no direct contact (notice as well that they never, ever expose their backs). It will start as a celebration: friendship, youth, and the similar plea for personal space. The change will start simply. The older sister nonchalantly picks up the younger sister’s Barbie. Young Sister looks directly at Old Sister for the first time. Old Sister, having seen this change, throws the Barbie up into the tree, where its hair tangles with the needle roof, and remains airborne. The mixture of two parts loathing, one part misunderstanding and one part action (coming from both sisters) will be exactly opposite and thus, exactly perfect.
13. Make a Close Call:
Three more feet and the car would have been your coffin, but make sure those three feet exist.
14. Make Ends Meet:
Thread spider webs through the freckles on your left arm and pull tightly, bunching up the skin like a piece of elastic. Do not waste any material. Ask the next person down the line to carefully begin threading through your right arm, connecting the freckles—in order to do this at the utmost efficiency and waste the least amount of web, you must put your arms in front of you like a genie. When they have finished, your neighbor will begin the process again on themselves, using the same thread, thus connecting you two together in the same genie stance. This will continue down the line with each person until it creates an even, unbroken line of ridged skin, even shoulders and uneven glares (some can take threading more easily than others). The final person will not be able to complete the process, as he has no neighbor to thread his right arm to his left. He will be lost, and the feelings of an uncompleted task will ripple down the thread and tremble in the tiniest crevices between each neighbor’s shoulders. This situation must be remedied. You know what to do, and begin to turn slowly inward, pulling your neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, and so on, to create an arc. The final person does the same, pulling the neighbors, as you two inch farther away from the original line and closer to each other. Once next to each other, you have created a circle, yet still have no way of threading the web through the final person’s arms. The End stands just like everyone else, still trembling and causing the thread to shake. With your right hand you clasp his forearm to ease the shaking, and form a much stronger bond that webs ever could, or can, or will.
15. Even Out the Playing Field:
Mix oil and vinegar, but this time, Young Sister throws the Barbie in the air.
16. Make Love:
Walk along the Charles River with a perfect stranger as the sun begins to rise. The skyline illuminates, the golden curls licking the water between the shadows of the buildings, creating a perfect outline in the water of the reality on the land. It’s quiet, except for the creak of the swings in an imaginary breeze. You don’t know her. She doesn’t know you. But you share the skyline, share the curls, separate the water and share the sunrise. In the clasped hands of you and her, a tiny electricity of song hits you both, three times quick. She’s not such a perfect stranger anymore.
17. State the Obvious:
Your freckles can be connected to map out the route from Alaska to your own front door.
18. See Eye to Eye:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
19. Reach Cloud 9:
Find yourself in the middle of the woods. Surrounded by trees, you break free of the needle roof in a small clearing, the green-flushed grass welcoming you. Lie down in the middle. You can feel them (this is familiar). There are people, lying down with you. There are four of you. Creating a pinwheel with your heads at the center, you cannot see each other. From the sky you all make a star. No matter that you cannot see each other. Seeing and feeling and touching and tasting and hearing, what are they but surface-level misconceptions? You are. You be. They are there. You see the half moon and full sky, together. One eye. You feel the tingle of grass on your spines, together. One spine. You touch the uneven soil underneath the grass with the tips of your fingers, together. One finger. You taste the life of trees, together. One breath. You hear the contented whispers of buried souls underneath you, the ones who had lain in the same spot before you and refused to go, and thus been eroded and buried, together. One.
I killed a blog, so it's my duty to start one
(yes you, I wrote this for you)
I make no promises. This blog has very little chance of lasting over a week, but we'll see how it goes. A week ago I would never have considered writing a blog. Maybe by next week, I would never consider stopping. We'll see.
I make no promises. This blog has very little chance of lasting over a week, but we'll see how it goes. A week ago I would never have considered writing a blog. Maybe by next week, I would never consider stopping. We'll see.
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