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Nov. 26th, 2004 @ 11:54 am
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I wonder how it is I’m supposed to write this academic paper
when I can still remember what the small of your back smells like.
What your legs look like under the shortest skirts.
The curve of your lips when you laugh at my jokes.
I keep foolishly associating you with any song I hear on the radio.
I thought I’d lost that habit years ago,
but then,
I also thought I was straight. Go figure.Current Mood:  nostalgic Current Music: Vienna Teng- Harbor |
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Nov. 23rd, 2004 @ 08:58 am
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In a few hours I will be staring out the grimy window
Of a Peter Pan bus, on my way to Amherst,
Massachusetts.
The plastic seat will probably be pricked with holes and smell
Slightly of musk. I will listen to old favorite music,
Songs stuck on repeat for years,
And try to look forward to seeing old friends again.
The sky will darken and the air will freeze,
And I’ll persist in my wistful melancholy.
The scene is perfect enough to come straight out of a movie,
I could be a silver screen heroine if I were thinner,
Less Hispanic.
Isn’t there always something bizarrely satisfying in regret? Tragedy? Sadness?
I always thought so.Current Mood: thoughtful Current Music: Dice- Finley Quaye |
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I am the kind of girl who sits
In coffee shops and reads for hours,
Listening to pseudo-intellectual Pop and
Not-quite feeling sorry for myself.
Trust me, I'm perfectly aware of my own melodramtic tendencies.
I self-mock out of boredome.
I used to hate these sugary syrupy Starbucks mixed drink foamy latte things
(They aren't really coffee).
But now I find myself addicted.
How embarrassing; my friends back home
Would hardly recognize me.
These days, I don't understand most of what I read.
I comprehend it; I just don't understand it,
At least,
Not the way I think I'm supposed to.
I've grown more tolerant of television commercials.
I'm not a snob, I just hate most people
(An affliction that isn't as rare as we'd like to think).
I suppose someday I'll find myself an outlet,
or die trying.
In the meantime, I'm spending too much money on coffee.Current Mood: self-mocking Current Music: The Killers-Indie Rock and Roll |
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Nov. 13th, 2004 @ 01:43 pm
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I am such a hopeless nerd.
***
I fall in love with any bookshop that will have me.
I can’t resist those tantalizing tomes,
The smells of new paper,
The stories bound between staples and smooth covers.
These fickle lemans woo me more romantically
Than any boy could ever hope to;
They court me with signs proclaiming,
‘New Paperback fiction—20% off,’
‘Staff Favorites,’
‘New York Times Bestsellers.’
I’m hopeless to their charms,
Though they never pay for dates,
Never call me on Valentine’s Day.
But the sex! Oh, I could spend hours
Ensconced between shelves, fingers trembling,
Turning pages and moaning at each new discovery.
How could any lover compare?
Every time, I vow I will not be taken in,
I will only zip quickly in and out for a fast, purposeful purchase.
But I always stumble and fall head over heels,
Swooning, gaping,
Enamored.
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Photography has taken over my life.
***
Photography teaches you to count time in seconds.
Gently agitate the print in developer for exactly two minutes,
In the stop bath for 30 seconds.
Choose a shutter speed between a thousandth of a second or
A full minute.
Make a test strip,
With inch-wide strips of paper getting three seconds,
The next inch six seconds,
The next inch nine,
Etcetera.
Soon it becomes regular to transfer this habit to actual life;
Soon you are measuring the seconds it takes to get from one floor
Of the english building to the next,
The seconds it takes you to toast a bagel and eat it before
The bell rings for next period. (You refuse to skip breakfast,
No matter how late you are.)
Soon your hands stink of photo-flo and fixer,
Scents vaguely reminiscent of urine.
Soon you shoot pictures without a camera,
Blinking your eyelids like shutters and mentally calculating
What angle, frame, focus point would be best for this particular shot.
Your world becomes black and white,
Trapped in a thirty-five millimeter lens.
You never saw the beauty in grays before.Current Mood:  amused |
| » Drugged |
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Every morning I am faced with a choice:
Take my medications, and retain the strength and clarity
Of mind to write that analytical paper, impressing my professors
With my sophisticated word choice and precise analysis
Of symbolism in texts X, Y and Z; or
Refuse, walk into the day free of substances, free of
Chemical strangers roaming my brain,
And experience those near-hallucinogenic bursts of creativity
That allow me to write real words.
On days when my prescription runs out everything possesses a poetic tinge.
Is this my natural state or just a reaction
To being kept docile?
Red pill vs. Blue pill, This vs.
That.
I down a neat capsule with smooth edges every
Morning with a glass of water and get
Moderately good grades. They could get better, but then,
Everything could get better with the addition of creativity.
***
I find it ironic that this week, which is Freedom from Chemical Dependency week at my school, my school expelled a boy for doing lines of coke.
Nov. 11th, 2004 @ 12:04 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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This is the introduction to my University of California essay. It was, tragically, culled from the final essay as stupid UC only accepts 630 words, but I like it, and it expresses my mood right now quite well. I just want to remember it.
***
Every single time I walk into my dorm room at Philip’s Academy, Andover, I am confronted with a giant poster depicting White Canyon, one of the most beautiful places in southern Utah. If I just glance at the picture for more than a second, it seems to come alive in front of me: the light glittering off the rust-colored canyon walls, the trickle of water slithering in between rocks and boulders, and the plateaus looming high overhead all seem to come alive, dancing and shimmering and melting off the page into my eyesockets. I don’t have to read the caption (“The Idea of Wilderness Needs No Defense, Only More Defenders.” –Edward Abbey) to be struck and moved by the stark beauty of the southern Utah wilderness, for my passion for protecting it to be renewed, for homesickness to hit me like a lightning bolt to the chest.
Nov. 9th, 2004 @ 09:50 pm
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| » *blink blink* |
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...Wow. An original short (very short) story! I haven't written one of those in *forever.* And it wasn't hard to write at all. Damn! Go me!
( Larry loved Boston in winter. )
***
It was inspired by the pic fic challenge--the picture of two benches in a snowy park, obviously. Not going to post it there yet, as I don't think it's finished. I really want to explore what happens to Larry after this conversation--hell, I might even have an idea for a whole novel, or at least novella. This is so exciting!
But I have to get back to writing college essays. Eek.
Nov. 7th, 2004 @ 08:03 pm
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| » Too many of my poems are about coffee. |
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There is a piece of glass lodged in
my throat at 6:59 a.m. as
I attempt to study espanol but
I’m thinking in poems not the preterite tense and
Coffee tastes more bitter than it ever has and
The sky is just barely turning light, I can’t
See the sunrise from my desk window I can
See naked trees silhouetted against a dusky sky and I
Can wonder if I’ll last the day before
Tumbling into dirty sheets and hitting my pillow in
Slow motion like I’m the star of my
Favorite movie and am finally getting
That one big moment on screen, and it is
Only to fall asleep in the most dramatic of
Ways and I obviously never valued sleep enough.
Oct. 25th, 2004 @ 05:01 am
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| » (No Subject) |
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I'm posting this fic right now because I'm so fucking frustrated that I'm hoping releasing it out to the public--even though hardly anyone reads this journal--will, I don't know, exorcise it or something. Or maybe just because this is the closest it'll get to being finished. It's very, *very* much a work in progress.
DC comicverse, AU in which Jason Todd survives. Kon/Jason (because obviously Superboy/Robin is a pairing that transcends universes).
( Read more... )
Oct. 18th, 2004 @ 12:31 am
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| » More sunday morning poetry |
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I wish Billy Holiday’s music reminded me
Of someone. I wish it made me feel melancholy
In more than just a vaguely abstract way.
The truth is,
I haven’t been touched in more than a year.
The truth is,
I find horniness worse than loneliness.
I used to play the saxophone.
I used to sing, too,
And play the piano well enough
To perform.
Music has always had a sexual element
For me.
Or maybe it’s sensual. I can’t really tell anymore.
On days like this, I read poetry and
Listen to jazz and make myself coffee.
What do you know, it’s just not the same.
I’m wasting words. All I’m trying to say is, at the end of the day?
I still miss you.
Oct. 17th, 2004 @ 12:47 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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I had a religious experience while walking to retrieve my mail this evening.
My area of campus is comprised of mostly old-fashioned, New England-style red brick buildings, black lamp posts, huge lawns and *trees.* Lots, and lots, and lots of trees.
Some trees that are mostly leafless by now, some trees that are evergreen, some trees that are still adorned with leaves changing to red and gold and maroon.
The light hit all these trees, and all these beautiful buildings as I was walking. I had to stop and gasp aloud.
New England autumn is unlike anything I can really describe, otherwise I would attempt to write poetry about it. All I can say is that right now, in photography, *only* having access to black and white film is physically painful.
Oct. 16th, 2004 @ 03:38 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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Two drabbles: first one was for the ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) x_men100 challenge this week, Jubilee and Emma; second one was inspired by ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) liviapenn's latest crack generator, Roy/Dick.
( Graveyard visit )
( Robin and Speedy )
Oct. 15th, 2004 @ 04:11 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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I think I'm actually incapable of writing an essay without using cliff notes.
I don't think this was always the case, but to be honest I can't remember.
I think I'm a good enough liar that my teachers haven't actually caught on.
I think they will soon, and I think many already have.
I think this can't possibly be healthy (scratch that, I know).
I think I put too much stock into moody song lyrics.
I think I don't have enough talent to accomplish anything real.
I think I'm a pretentious asshole most of the time.
I think I suck at poetry.
I think I need to find a language for myself.
I think I just need to finish this fucking essay before two a.m.
Oct. 12th, 2004 @ 07:48 pm
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| » Sunday morning over coffee |
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Somehow Ani Difranco expresses my emotions better than I could ever dream to.
It’s startling how, on Sunday mornings,
The littlest things can prove impossible.
I deserve a medal for getting out of bed this morning.
Well, I don’t, really, but wouldn’t that be nice?
I’m probably being too melodramatic again. Sunday mornings
Do that to me. No one told me I could write poetry,
And someone should probably clue me in
That I can’t.
My only talents are making delicious coffee
And wallowing in self-pity.
I am an excellent wallower.
Truly one of the best, in my humble opinion.
But I try not to brag. Really.
Someday I’ll be productive.
Oct. 10th, 2004 @ 10:56 am
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| » Poetry |
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I'm reading Sylvia Plath in english class. I think it shows.
( Mother )
Oct. 5th, 2004 @ 11:08 am
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| » (No Subject) |
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I want to make a piece of art that means something. I want to make a piece of art that's controversial. I want to make a piece of art that turns people on. I want to make a piece of art that turns me on. I want to make a piece of art that gives people nightmares. I want to make a piece of art that makes people glance at me sideways. I want to make a piece of art that isn't thrown away. I want to make a piece of art that expresses myself. I want to make a piece of art that has nothing at all to do with me. I want to make a piece of art that reflects my influences. I want to make a piece of art that sings. I want to make a piece of art that pisses people off. I want to make a piece of art that makes my heart rate quicken. I want to make a piece of art that induces seizures. I want to make a piece of art that will let me pass my art class. I want to make a piece of art that will impress my art teacher. I want to make a piece of art that will disturb my art teacher. I want to make a piece of art that I can't show to my parents. I want to make a piece of art about sex. I want to make a piece of art that reminds people of Gershwin. I want to make a piece of art that can be shown in coffeehouses. I want to make a piece of art that would never be shown in a gallery. I want to make a piece of art that would shock the art world. I want to make a piece of art that the 'art world' would mock. I want to make a piece of art that everyone can understand. I want to make a piece of art that lets people know what I'm made of.
I want to make a piece of art that I'm satisfied with.
Oct. 2nd, 2004 @ 11:47 am
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| » Three Poems |
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I've been feeling suspiciously poetic lately. I suspect this is a biproduct of medication somehow.
( Coffee )
( Neutrality )
( Maudlin music )
Oct. 1st, 2004 @ 09:43 pm
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| » Ficlet:: DCU, titleless for now |
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This ficlet was sorta/kinda inspired by the current dc_flashfiction challenge, and more directly inspired by Teen Titans #14, which takes place immediately before this ficlet.
( Superboy and school don't really mix well... )
Aug. 24th, 2004 @ 11:37 pm
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| » Poetry... meh, no title |
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The stereotypical college student sits up in her dorm long after midnight
eating stale goldfish and listening to broken records
of music that used to make her cry.
Perhaps she glances at her action figures and wonders what it’s like,
to be made out of plastic.
To be easily posable,
so conveniently molded into X-rated positions by the bored and horny.
Or maybe she contemplates her stapler,
methodically spitting out identical pieces of jagged twisted metal,
god it must get bored.
Or the speaker that probably hates half the music it’s forced to play over and over,
the songs she finds profound stuck on repeat.
The posters in the wall, so scornful of her,
laughing and jeering and glorying in her classic young adult angst,
although it’s possible she’s paranoid about that one.
She has been waiting for June since last July,
missing midsummer since the first day of Fall.
She fits the term ‘spoiled brat’
so perfectly that it’s almost complementary.
She’s a slob, but doesn’t mind stepping on candy wrappers
that litter the floor on the way to her bed.
Sometimes that café down the street calls to her,
that hip, pretentious spot where she used to skip school,
her nose buried in a book because she was scared,
hadn’t yet realized that her teachers half-expected her not to be there.
She appreciates a well-written sex scene more than Shakespeare,
although she thinks good ole Will isn’t half-bad, either.
She does this every night,
although she doesn’t always spend the minutes writing poetry,
filling blank screens with dots and dashes of black ink,
files that will be saved and then forgotten about
until she comes across them one night months later
and inexplicably begins to weep until her tearducts exhaust themselves.
Or, in other words, I'm vaguely discontent with a number of things and should really go to bed. Oh yay, another 4-hours-of-sleep night.
May. 17th, 2004 @ 01:43 am
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