life as of late
I am reading White Oleander and I long to write with as much beauty as she. But my metaphors are pretentious and cliches drip from my pen. I once wrote that it was my life goal to have an original thought, but now it seems as though I dont have the talent for it. I remember how catipillar christmas lights inched across the ceiling at a caffe in Middletown and the rush of joy that suffocated me when i was alone. Is that normal? I fear returning to wesleyan after all of this time.
My pictures are old, and I see band camp and martha's vinyard: a web of safety and light. Now it is so much more fragmented, singular, and I dont have a photograph that can remind me. Now its all in my head, my hands. Now it is my responsibility to make life happen.
I worry that teach for america wont want me.
A commercial infused with cliche and falsity claimed prom is the most important night of a girl's life. Where were we for the parties? Where were we for prom? Was I too childish or too mature? Where am I now, and why do I cringe when I think of it all? What will I think when I can see it all from above?
I cannot imagine someone else living in this house. Eating in the dining room with our purple ceilings, sitting at this desk and longing for china through the wallpapered mural. Worse would be all of this gutted, assymilated into waspy whiteness. They would keep the living room, and my room, too. My room. Not mine any longer. Wallpaper, sheets... all relics from a time when the pink stripes were bars that could keep the world outside. Now my father and I fight about israeli terrorists and landscaping. I think about Joy, Liza, family... but I never call. I dont know why.
When, and if, I read this again, I know it will seem incoherent. But that is how I feel now. As if none of it follows. This summer is a time warp in life. Moving backwards and preparing to leap ahead. Not stagnancy, exactly. A wrinkle in my life, spliced between realities.
My pictures are old, and I see band camp and martha's vinyard: a web of safety and light. Now it is so much more fragmented, singular, and I dont have a photograph that can remind me. Now its all in my head, my hands. Now it is my responsibility to make life happen.
I worry that teach for america wont want me.
A commercial infused with cliche and falsity claimed prom is the most important night of a girl's life. Where were we for the parties? Where were we for prom? Was I too childish or too mature? Where am I now, and why do I cringe when I think of it all? What will I think when I can see it all from above?
I cannot imagine someone else living in this house. Eating in the dining room with our purple ceilings, sitting at this desk and longing for china through the wallpapered mural. Worse would be all of this gutted, assymilated into waspy whiteness. They would keep the living room, and my room, too. My room. Not mine any longer. Wallpaper, sheets... all relics from a time when the pink stripes were bars that could keep the world outside. Now my father and I fight about israeli terrorists and landscaping. I think about Joy, Liza, family... but I never call. I dont know why.
When, and if, I read this again, I know it will seem incoherent. But that is how I feel now. As if none of it follows. This summer is a time warp in life. Moving backwards and preparing to leap ahead. Not stagnancy, exactly. A wrinkle in my life, spliced between realities.