ramble: again, please feel free to ignore
I miss the writing of Francesca Lia Block. I wish wish wish I could re-read Dangerous Angels again for the first time--to experience that vulnerable, broken, messy beauty again and to weep and laugh and tumble around with the characters without knowing them, judging them, or knowing what will happen.
I know I can write. Somehow. Listening to OTR makes me want to write again. Part of me thinks I have to throw away writing on the computer... The last two specs/fics I wrote I wrote almost exclusively by hand in my journals, during long and lonely nights stuck at Crabtree, surrounded by the plastic indifference of the mall written in several different spurts and between customers. That is one thing I miss at this B&N: at the one in Cincinnati, I was stuck so often back at Register 8, trapped at the back of the store and often bored out of my mind. I used to pick up those little pieces of paper from their stacks and write insane stream-of-consciousness poetry (which I then subjected too many of you to)... But there was something lovely about coming home exhausted and fishing half-forgotten pieces of poetry out of my pockets and finding them on the floor in the morning.
My apartment needs another bookshelf so it won't be so lonely.
I hope my loans go through.
I need paint and mess and things to dig my hands into and singing wildly into winter nights while we drink red wine and smile and write poetry on the walls and paint images that only make sense in such a drunk. I need a lover and constant music and more time off but more money. I need to cook more and think less. My secret dream is to cook all break long and put so much food in the freezer so I don't have to eat anything processed or half-assed next semester, at least for a little while.
Where do we put lonely? Is it in some Jeff Buckley side of our hearts, the little tear that holds fear and angst and rejection? Where do we put our redemption? Our sense of grace and joy and burning boats?
And now I really am rambling. I feel like I'm on the precipice of discovering something and can't. I can't tell if I'm in my own way or if there's just something not-quite-right.
"The prince is never going to come, everybody knows that; and maybe Sleeping Beauty's dead." -Lestat
Kentucky. I am coming soon. Please wait for me. Recharge and re-establish me. Let me feel my blood again, because here it's echo is faint, and while the mountains root me they also throw me out into the void. I need rolling hills and forests and poetry and snow and deer and the thing that is Kentucky, that indescribable thing that there just isn't a word for.
Taraneh, I hope we'll have some time together. Silvia too (though I don't think she reads this). Rachael--of course.
My heart feels so torn. Part of me is complete and utter nomad, and I think that, either alone or with the right person by my side, I could keep re-inventing myself forever, keep slapping on my traveller's boots and marching onwards. But I know that there's a part of me that wants home and family and warm nights with popcorn and apples and babies and strong arms and all of those crazy fifties ideals. Oh, this is what happens when you're raised by baby boomers who lived Norman Rockwell childhoods. This is what happens when you grow up on a place like Cliffview Avenue, which is a perfect beautiful fifties bubble of impractical and romantic childhood.
Ah, God.
I know I can write. Somehow. Listening to OTR makes me want to write again. Part of me thinks I have to throw away writing on the computer... The last two specs/fics I wrote I wrote almost exclusively by hand in my journals, during long and lonely nights stuck at Crabtree, surrounded by the plastic indifference of the mall written in several different spurts and between customers. That is one thing I miss at this B&N: at the one in Cincinnati, I was stuck so often back at Register 8, trapped at the back of the store and often bored out of my mind. I used to pick up those little pieces of paper from their stacks and write insane stream-of-consciousness poetry (which I then subjected too many of you to)... But there was something lovely about coming home exhausted and fishing half-forgotten pieces of poetry out of my pockets and finding them on the floor in the morning.
My apartment needs another bookshelf so it won't be so lonely.
I hope my loans go through.
I need paint and mess and things to dig my hands into and singing wildly into winter nights while we drink red wine and smile and write poetry on the walls and paint images that only make sense in such a drunk. I need a lover and constant music and more time off but more money. I need to cook more and think less. My secret dream is to cook all break long and put so much food in the freezer so I don't have to eat anything processed or half-assed next semester, at least for a little while.
Where do we put lonely? Is it in some Jeff Buckley side of our hearts, the little tear that holds fear and angst and rejection? Where do we put our redemption? Our sense of grace and joy and burning boats?
And now I really am rambling. I feel like I'm on the precipice of discovering something and can't. I can't tell if I'm in my own way or if there's just something not-quite-right.
"The prince is never going to come, everybody knows that; and maybe Sleeping Beauty's dead." -Lestat
Kentucky. I am coming soon. Please wait for me. Recharge and re-establish me. Let me feel my blood again, because here it's echo is faint, and while the mountains root me they also throw me out into the void. I need rolling hills and forests and poetry and snow and deer and the thing that is Kentucky, that indescribable thing that there just isn't a word for.
Taraneh, I hope we'll have some time together. Silvia too (though I don't think she reads this). Rachael--of course.
My heart feels so torn. Part of me is complete and utter nomad, and I think that, either alone or with the right person by my side, I could keep re-inventing myself forever, keep slapping on my traveller's boots and marching onwards. But I know that there's a part of me that wants home and family and warm nights with popcorn and apples and babies and strong arms and all of those crazy fifties ideals. Oh, this is what happens when you're raised by baby boomers who lived Norman Rockwell childhoods. This is what happens when you grow up on a place like Cliffview Avenue, which is a perfect beautiful fifties bubble of impractical and romantic childhood.
Ah, God.