Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Adele Regina Clare's LiveJournal:

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Friday, October 10th, 2008
7:49 am	Everything I write is for one other person now, and when he reads what I write, it gives me the sensation of the whole world reading it. Which is a wonderful sensation - and I can keep writing, I can always keep writing. There is always more history, more insights, more observations, more incidents, more, more, more. Even my past has expanded due to the reflection I have given it, in order to write it. I feel the broadness of my life more than ever before, the nuances of who I am. When you exist in this form, you do become somewhat of a character and perhaps you can love the character - appreciate her, sympathize with her. Although - I have the capability to build mansions out of ordinary homes, and when that architecture crumbles, I hope I will hold onto the joy, yes, joy, that I find out of simply stringing words together to make some kind of sense. That's a stupid metaphor. I mean to suggest that other people are capable of waking us up, but one would hope, if your brilliant fairytale did not come to fruition, that you wouldn't curl up softly, and go back to sleep. I read recently that there is a myth in an ancient hindu text that details the story of two people who fell in love simply by hearing of the other's good deeds. I love that idea. Not by reputation of their attractiveness or talent or charm but their kindness. I can't think of a more valid reason to love another person. To be genuinely kind is such a heavy and difficult thing to do. I know because of my own failings. If you aren't born with the inclination, and I think very few are, you have to practice, you have to be aware of your actions, you have to atone for them, and then you have to have faith in your capability to do better next time. At any rate, I work at a mental hospital. With each passing day, I let loads of material slip through my fingers and into the nether where it will be difficult to access, if I choose to write it down. It is a shame I am not recording the things that I am witness to, because it is so alarming and bizarre and funny and sad, that I think - write it down. But I can't. I'm too tired. And if I keep my eyes on that stuff for too long, it seeps in through the skin and is too difficult to get out. So i keep quiet. But my oh my. The things I have seen. It's changed the way I look at the world, but I don't question quite how, because the answer might be too morbid. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, July 25th, 2008
10:18 am	I feel an ache to express myself, I can't shake the feeling that I have betrayed my artistic nature in favor of so many distractions. In years past, I was a very selfish, egotistical and dramatic girl. Which is not to suggest that I am none of those things now, but when such qualities surface, they are now tempered by so many opposing feelings that I can't fully have the fun with them that I used to. But this was the era of my life that was marked by effortless courage, which was so effortless that perhaps it was not courage at all. And I didn't think about writing - I just did it, as naturally as I covered my face with nine pounds of makeup or cried about boyfriends or imagined myself as brilliant and unstoppable. Over the years, the writing faded, the high heels and black eyeliner were permanently retired, the idea of romantic love was replaced by a shattering sense of my fear to be independent...there was no brilliance, and I have, in many ways, stopped. As a hobby, I try to discover the etiology of my losses, as if knowing the very moment things changed would give me some kind of relief. There is a Buddhist saying - It doesn't matter how the root grew - it matters to pull it out, or something like that, beautiful advice that the intellectual in me refuses to follow, the part of us that must always have answers. Maybe I just wish I was a teenager still - but sacrificing my investments into clothing or boyfriends or my own grandiosity - this doesn't phase me. It doesn't bother me to be quieter, or more aware of others, or to accept the more mundane responsibilities of becoming a woman. I only wish that I could have kept, or could reawaken, my curiosity, my affection for things that aren't entirely familiar. It seems that at some point, I may have learned that these things can hurt you, and I've spent many hours of many days avoiding hurt. In some fields of psychology, they refer to this as "experential avoidance" , the avoidance of your own experience. We avoid our experience through a number of clever ways - through substances (first used to enhance but then we know the dangerous arc of drug abuse)television, certain relationships, crossword puzzles - whatever the drug is that best helps to dull the experience of oneself. I have become expert at experential avoidance. The memory of terrible nights spent alone could, for example, create such a need to constantly surround oneself with others that one forgets that aloneness is necessary for writing, creating, reflection, etc. There is a vain effort to steady the pendulum so that neither pain nor joy is fully felt. My point here is that losing spontaneity and curiosity and most gravely, creativity is not, can not be due to the natural process of "growing up" although certainly paying your own phone bill fucking sucks, and wearing short skirts is kind of stupid now, and there are no parties on friday night (at least, that I know of) and your heart doesn't beat the way it used to. But perhaps our experiences can lead us to become fearful, and that fear causes a retreat into safety and familiarity...and then, suddenly, we are not at all who or what we could have been. Abraham Maslow said, "The human race is a story about people selling themselves short." I don't want to live that way (much longer?) (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 24th, 2008
10:31 pm	I don't want to get old I don't want to get old I don't want to get old but I feel it happening anyway. (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 19th, 2008
10:15 pm	Interesting thing is -- there's a lot to say, and at the same, very little-- I said to a friend recently that if I were to sum up this past year of my life in a autobiography, it would say, "And then, a year passed." I think I may have possibly and accidentally spent the past 12 months (and my personal calendar year begins in May, due to my lease pattern) just doing an awful lot of feeling and ruminating. But then, I know that's not true, either. I took three classes, was a mother to eleven jewish children, quit smoking, started smoking, became a vegetarian, got a tattoo, grew a fondness for books on tape--etc. Why doesn't any of this seem to signify movement? What exactly do I expect from myself? To emerge totally triumphant? Reborn? Well, yes, I would like that. I like that because it's dramatic and poetic, and I have always attributed those qualities to myself-- But life, and change, is so gradual. And it makes good sense to have patience, and to look where you are, instead of constantly looking to next month, next year, your next incarnation as another human being. I've been in the habit of going to news websites, tacky ones, too--like CNN and MSNBC, so that I can remain current on the ever mounting saga of the 2008 election. But then, the problem is, my eyes wander to the other headlines. Senseless violence, no surprises there. Crashing economies, the end of civilization, this and that crisis on the horizon, and yet I can still casually walk into CVS and buy Pantene ProV. What gives? I've supplemented these news binges with literature about the psychological origins of torture and genocide--roughly put, human evil. And currently, I am finishing a course where the professor is a trauma and substance abuse therapist, and this class is more or less the equivalent to a sadistic camp counselor telling you disturbing ghost stories that are not at all age appropriate. "You want to go to the homeless shelter? I'll take you right now!" she threatens. But the overall impression I receive after taking the class is that every third person I encounter has been sexually abused, force fed gin, or both. I want to write about how I'd like to be more confident in our evolution, that we are not animals that have become totally unnatural and insane, but I became quite tired just writing that. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 20th, 2008
6:11 pm	avoid. I asked someone, someone who's opinion I very much respect in subjects such as these, what would happen to me if I gave up all of my coping mechanisms. I said, if I did that, I honestly wouldn't know who I was. My entire life is organized around coping mechanisms. What would I do instead? Who would I be? And he said something like, "Well, isn't that a wonderful place to start?" I GUESS? I have no idea who I am. I've sat here for minutes trying to elaborate on that thought, but, that's it. No idea - not one. Every thing that comes to mind when trying to put a definition in place seems false false false. A lump of stories, that loop in my brain, that other people could possibly verify, but what do they mean now? Meaningless. It's a wonderful place to start. (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 30th, 2008
3:27 pm	Hmmm. Terrified? and in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times when something is coming near, I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone. . . . . . . I want to unfold. I don't want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie. - Rainer Maria Rilke (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, February 3rd, 2008
11:07 am	I feel things on Sunday Mornings. There is no time to feel sorry for yourself, to dislike your situation, to dislike yourself, to be too much in the future, or too much in the past. There is no time to try and make others behave in the way you would like them to. There is no room for control. You literally have no time for these things. They only take you away from where you must and have to be. These days require diligence in the very moment. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008
9:29 pm	I realized: This is the happiest I have been since childhood. (Comment on this)
Thursday, December 13th, 2007
9:22 pm	but one more thing although the lj is an outdated trend, it gives me a rather vivid portrait of what I was like 5 years ago. I respect that person for her bravery in producing and showing her art, even if it wasn't so good, and I also respect her idiotic passion. I do not respect this, however: "Christmas is kitsch. That is, the denial of shit. During some of my more morbid moods, I'll allow myself to abandon kitsch and see Christmas for its exposed reality. It's a boost for the economy, a chance for teenagers to enhance their wardrobes, children their video games, yuppies their George Foreman grills. It is a way to ease the country into a cold, dark season. It is a way to deny shit." Sometimes, it's so nice to grow up. (Comment on this)
8:29 pm	I just had the strangest experience - in order to preserve the integrity of the experience, I shall not bastardize it on the Livejournal - suffice it to say, however, that it makes me want to jump up and down and shout into the universe, "I'M LISTENING! I'M LISTENING!" The day was so ugly but it ended with such hope, and such beauty, and my new favorite word is "auspicious." (Comment on this)
Sunday, November 11th, 2007
7:01 pm	Why I Chose To Study Psychology Alright. After the successive failure of two relationships, the rough equivalents of a slow cancerous death and a hit and run, it seems apropos to clear the cobwebs (and the eight legged monsters that reside there) out of my brain, soul and heart. To be slightly less dramatic, it's time to think. And some writers don't know what they think until they write it down. There are days when I still fancy myself a writer. Today is one of them; let's see what I've got. I read tarot cards. I am unconcerned with their legitimacy, or the fact that this is complimentary to, say, my deep love of cats and my willingness to pay a stranger fifty bucks to tell me that I will live long and happily - altogether compiling a portrait of a superstitious and naive person. I shrug off these troubling symptoms of gullibility. After all, I'm a Libra...Ha..ha? But I've noticed something. In my youth (too soon for yet another Ha Ha?) I would sit patiently through the psychic's musings about career, not wanting to directly tell them that I think about my career like I think about my own death: that is, it is hopefully very far away and I have no desire to know how it will happen. Let's get to love. (I am and fear that I shall always be a love junkie. I would have love injected straight into my veins if possible. I will be, if blessed to live into old age, an eighty-year-old incontinent woman, hoping to meet a similarly minded, robust eighty-year-old man.) Let's get to what's interesting. But now when I lay the cards myself, I can't stop asking about career. I phrase the questions differently, according to the whim of the moment: Give me insight into how I will feed myself. Give me insight into my passion. My creative development. What I will spend half of my day doing for the next forty years. And then I'll pull a card, maybe the two of cups, and I'll think, "Oh, I will be drinking from a bejeweled chalice while angels flood the air with their angel ballads. I wonder if I can get an MA in being serenaded by serafin" At times, I have very little patience for symbolism. I digress. My point is - I can't stop thinking about my career. And I picked one. I signed up for the GRE's. I contemplate personal statements on the drive to work. I justify my choice over and over, because, to be fair, it's a somewhat controversial one. For me. When I first considered being a therapist, it seemed somewhat appealing, given my committed love to the art of conversation. This, however, was not enough to eclipse the fact that me offering advice on mental health is comparable to an overweight paraplegic pursuing a successful career in the ballet. I think, more than once, I was met with a raised eyebrow and a gently phrased, "You think you'd be good at that?" "I guess not." After all, I'm crazy but not crazy like that. I am perfectly aware of my limitations. So aware, in fact, that this awareness has plummeted me into premature resignation. (You know, I'm sure, that long stream of angry thoughts...I cannot write well, love well, live at all well - or do you not? Perhaps some of us escape these self-inflicted tirades.) In short, I am unsuited for helping others when I have so often failed to help myself. Psychologists should be of stronger stock; they should smile wryly in the face of the human condition, or perhaps simply smile. Certainly not slam their face into their pillow and demand that God show himself to her RIGHT NOW if he's ever to have her allegiance and support. No. Those people should not go into the counseling professions. They should be wandering the back streets of Jerusalem, chanting mantras and having visions of being enveloped by fire. Hmm. Alternatively, I think a lot of people who have witnessed me during my darker moments might envision me slumped in a leather chair, the circles beneath my eyes half-moon grooves, lighting a cigarette with another cigarette, rasping something to the tune of, "Suicide is subject to moral relativity." I would not do that, but I could see why there would be concern. * * * I tattooed the word "Believe" on my chest (over my heart; in other words, the top of my right boob) The word is in Italian, because it is only for me - and, technically, Italians. This was not totally spontaneous; I have been infatuated with the word for years. If you were to ask me what I believe, the answer would have been unsatisfying, I'm sure. It has never been simply love , or life, or friendship, or a benevolent universe. I believe in these things, but the true answer has always been terribly specific, though I could not tell you exactly what it was. I am going to try, right now. But language is insufficient, and I wish I could show it purely in action. Which is one reason why I am going to be a psychologist. I once forgave myself. For everything. I did this without a priest or god's permission. I started by forgiving myself first for the awful way that I treated a close friend. I wrote her a letter of sincere apology and then decided, OK, ok, ok, ok. There's nothing more I can do. So I forgave myself. Then I forgave myself for not writing, and not caring about writing. I forgave myself for being destructive in my relationships. For a terrible lie. I forgave myself for abusing my body. I forgave my selfishness. My contempt for several friends and family. For saying and doing ridiculous things when drunk. For not taking advantage of college fully, for not reaching what I had always deemed my oh-so limitless potential. For not being a better lay. For lacking my concept of grace, beauty. I forgave myself for being a pain in the ass, a drama queen, for forgetting people's birthdays, for being self-absorbed, for not treasuring people, or life, for treating myself cruelly and without tenderness, for being attracted to people who did the same, for not letting certain people go, for never volunteering, for not getting published, mean gossip. I forgave my depression and the damage it had incurred. For lying. For being codependent and clingy. For not listening. For being unwilling to change. Needless to say, this led to the natural forgiving of others. I sent these things up into the air, like a smoke signal, away from me, and like individual balloons, they drifted until no longer in sight. I could only describe this feeling to my friends at the time through a haze of mania and irrational glee. I stayed that way for months. I went to Paris to reconcile with someone I loved and later lost again, but for those few months, I was free. I did this, of course, with the intention of doing my best to not do these things. I had changed in the most fundamental way, and how could I ever treat myself or others so callously ever again? And while there were improvements, my hapless destruction, the same self loathing, crept to the surface. I was so disappointed that I seemingly just couldn't stop hurting people, couldn't stop hurting myself, that I neatly folded those few months, smoothed out the wrinkles on my lap, and placed them where they could not be seen. But something amazing did happen. It took me 23 years to forgive myself the first time. It took two months the next, and now, I am diligently working toward forgiveness again, and the light at the end of the tunnel gleams with promise. I have accepted that those few months were not the end of my self-hatred, but the beginning of a life long journey toward self-love. (Trust me, I don't like using terms like self-love, but the language for this type of thing is full of restrictions.) It unfortunately requires such an arduous back story to fully explain my slow evolution, how I arrived at my choice. Forgiveness, to me, is not simply the end of anger, although it includes it. It is the end of anger and also the addition of compassion, tenderness and love, at least as it pertains to ourselves and those we hold close. I have formally reserved those words and feelings exclusively for others, but now extend them to myself. I must. As I have not completely lost my mind, I recognize that I could easily be perceived as overly-sentimental. I am not. I believe that every single person deserves love and happiness and meaning. I believe every single person deserves to be whole, that this is our birthright. It is obviously difficult to imagine that these things are birthrights, as so much of out world is swamped in pathological violence. I believe it anyways. When someone is treated with compassion and kindness, it is easier for them to internalize such attitudes toward themselves, and, consequently, others. I do not want to only alleviate suffering. I want to alleviate suffering in order to make healing possible. Ultimately, we can only save ourselves, but I think we can have someone walk with us during that process. I know that I could never provide anyone with all the answers - I doubt that anyone, even the mentally stalwart, could. But I have danced with most of the devils of depression, and I know all the convincing lies - I hear them sometimes, but I contest their validity. I am better prepared than they. I have not broached the study and science of psychology, which I have fallen in love with. True, it more oft than not has its eye on the grotesque, but it is gradually progressing to include the beautiful. Have I illustrated my point? I don't know. But I am going to be a psychologist. Because I believe, I believe, I believe. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, November 9th, 2007
8:49 am	A doozie of an LJ entry. For those of you that don't know, I teach four-year-olds, going on five. I use the word "teach" relatively loosely, as this age is on a precarious bridge between child and sub-child, so I suppose I teach them about 50% of the time. And the rest is spent prying their tiny hands off of each other's throats, kissing their injuries, playing surrogate mommy/tired, exasperated babysitter. One would think this type of job would require a certain lightness of heart, or at least some kind of special degree or training. In Pennsylvania, it requires neither. Occasionally, I am overcome by how inappropriate, how nonsensical it is that I do this - while my peers from Emerson are still burgeoning poets, I am soothing and scolding small children. And although I know that, come summer, the job will end and I will be pursuing radically different goals, I am already nostalgic for the beautiful simplicity of my day and their faces, of the way the world looks through these kids. The way the word "penis" absolutely delights them (I am fairly certain that it delighted me once too but now manages to excite only dull anxiety - very freudian and all that) and the way that they are quick to laugh and cry and be touched so easily, the way they believe everything they are told and accept that some mysteries in life are not meant to be understood (when the sun shines here, it is dark in China - why does the sun disappear and what is China? For that matter, what is the sun?) I love that none of them have been heartbroken. I love that when things die, they are certainly in heaven and they are certainly alright, and just waiting. I love their flexible moralities, their urge to hit when transgressed upon, their boundless, insistent affection. I love these raw, uncultivated little humans. Perhaps because, as tradition has it, I have always been the one in need of soothing and scolding. When I am with them, I can play the grown-up, the person with all the answers and when I leave again, I am suddenly transformed back into the child, very uncertain and very scared, my arms stretched out to no one in particular. Maybe this is why I feel an almost embarrassed sense of gratification - while many graduate degrees are dolled out and fellowships granted and resumes extended by the page and art is created, I have found some small peace in just having to be depended on. Anyways - Amanda has bug eyes and ratty hair, not terribly unlike my own. She is annoying. She may just be the most annoying child in the class, save Dylan, who speaks in an almost intolerable falsetto. But I think, out of all the kids in the class, she likes me the most. She is the only one who won't forget my existence upon seeing her mother, the only one who demands hugs before leaving. She tells me she loves me. I tell her I love her. It's almost perfect except for the inevitable tornado of chaos that she will bring with her the next day - when she will lord over the toddlers like a medieval baron or play catch with scissors or jam her leg into one of the spaces between the bars on the climber, which, I swear, isn't even technically possible. I pull her aside nearly daily and I get on eye-level with her. I say, "Amanda, look at me," while her eyes flutter into the back of her head. I sometimes guide her by the chin to meet my own eyes and she makes sounds of resistance and impatience that I am even bothering to reprimand her, when we both mutually know that she simply will not stop. "Do I love you?" I ask her. Easy. "Yes." "Do you love me?" "Yes." "Then please stop hurting my feelings and have good listening ears." (I have mastered this sort of vernacular, though I won't deny that it makes me queasy at times - maybe it's the sloping shape that my voice takes.) "Okay, okay, okay, okay," she says quickly and insincerely, and she runs off, maybe she kicks someone on the way and screams, "IT WAS AN ACCIDENT." And I feel, maybe, that Amanda and I are very much alike. Because someone or something has had its thumb and pointer finger firmly on my chin, forcing me to look into its eyes. And I entertain the idea of having good listening ears, but not really. I too make empty promises and run off to make further offenses against this thing that loves me, this thing that I love. I was told "You need to be alone right now. You need to heal." "Ok ok ok ok." And I didn't listen. So now, when I feel bruised and humiliated and really all used up, and terrified most of all of being left alone with me - ME who is rotten company, ME who has disappointed again and again in a variety of unique and sometimes puzzling ways, ME who certainly will not take care of me, won't tell me that I'm pretty or smart or interesting, but maybe will whisper toxicities that will weave themselves into my dreams, leave me shaky come morning - so now, that same voice that spoke calmly months before is booming "YOU NEED TO BE ALONE. YOU NEED TO HEAL." And I say, "OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY." And I have to listen to this time. I've never been screamed at like this. I write this here because I need at least one person - I need ONE person - to read this and know that I mean it, to believe me. This could be anybody. This could be a friend or an enemy (do I have any enemies? I wonder.) a close friend, a not close friend, not a friend at all, someone I have never met, someone I have talked to once. Someone awkward. Someone. Someone who will take my word that I will not run into someone's arms because I cannot tolerate my own dangling at my sides. Someone to believe that I will begin to tolerate it, be happy with it. I don't know how possible true change really is. I don't know if I'll quit smoking, eat better food, take supplements, go to the gym, practice meditation, return all of my phone calls, pay my rent on time, save some money, get in touch with old friends, forgive ex-friends, ex-boyfriends, live with a profound sense of dignity and worth, learn to love strangers, write a poem, go to bed early, do my laundry on time, get a good score on the GRE, be certain and respectful of my own divinity. I don't know if I'll do all those things. Perhaps ever. But I do know that, whatever I do, at least for awhile, I'm going to do it alone and be OKAY (happy?) with that. (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, September 27th, 2007
8:54 pm	Today, a four year old told me, "You're not very smart." "Yes, I am," I quickly replied. Too quickly. (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 9th, 2007
6:32 pm	It occurred to me just now that I have, in the past, mistaken recklessness for passion. There is a word - I forgot what it was - in the Japanese language that refers to the feelings of nausea some experience upon first seeing Paris. The beauty is so intense that it literally makes them want to puke. I love that. (Comment on this)
Monday, August 6th, 2007
12:34 pm	pause for a moment of gratitude I'm thinking about how I'm going to get to see so many people I love this weekend and then more people I love later in the month and then how I've gotten to spend time with a few people I love in the months beforehand and how I just spent 5 days with someone I love dearly and how I love both of my roommates so incredibly and how philadelphia is speckled with people whom I also love so much and I am so grateful! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 11th, 2007
10:41 pm	I'm on a three day cycle of INSANE. Get up. Lay in bed. Have to pee. Too lazy to pee. Check gmail facebook netflix. Need to send back Casablanca so I can get Sunset Boulevard. Lay in bed. Stare at pictures of girl I went to high school with who was not my friend but she is engaged - how is this girl engaged? The books she likes are stupid. The movies are shit too. Lay in bed. Quotes from sex and the fucking city sound retarded when taken out of the context of that show. You are not a Carrie. What can I do to make life meaningful? Apologize to people, probably about three people; I'm not sure who or for what but I have a fair degree of certitude that I piss off, on average, about three people a week. Hate the people I'm apologizing to for making me feel bad about fucking them over in whatever way, and then hate them additionally for making me feel hate, and then finally, for making me feel self-pitying. I can write more poems on the wall. I can write my own poem on the wall. I can search the internet for Rilke quotes, I could be discerning. I could involve myself in the painstaking mission of finding musically like-minded Amazon members and download their music suggestions, burn that CD, listen to it while I do the dishes, really only like one song, play it over and over and over. Play it on the way to Dunkin Donuts. Smoke cigarettes. Take my medication that is supposed to make me want to quit smoking cigarettes. Quit smoking cigarettes. Today? Tomorrow. Next Thursday. I'm sorry, and I love you, Mom & Dad. Smoke cigarettes. Drink iced coffee. Wait a few hours. Drink wine. Research graduate programs. Maybe I would like linguistics. What are linguistics? I read a book about politics last summer - it was written by a political linguist. George Orwell was a linguist. Language is a dangerous thing. Maybe I should teach. Fuck teaching. I want to make oooodles of money and buy a huge house that I will devote at least 4 rooms of to housing homeless teens. Research freelance writing. What do you have to do? Write. Next. Craigslist seems phony. I think it's because the layout is so unsophisticated. I could watch all 8 seasons of Felicity on our shelf. I could dig the solid milk out of the bowls. I could apply for americorps, peace corps, all the corps. I could watch CNN and keep up on the election. I could watch the local news and keep up on that guy who rapes women and sucks on their toes. I could do writing exercises in the book I have about reclaiming my inner artist. I could lament. I could feel happy. I could put my ear to my cat's tummy and listen. be afraid of nuculearwarmortalityTheWayMyFriendsAndIHaveChangedsexhatredchaostheory. I could get a job. I can't get a job. I could take it easy. I can't take it easy. I could write in my livejournal. And I did. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, June 17th, 2007
10:50 pm	lj therapy session, # 439 strange when you stop counting when you've last seen or spoken to someone - in the beginning, there is constant measuring. how soon things lose their definition, their hard lines. there are a lot of children in my new neighborhood. I feel like a gargoyle on my porch. I have the urge to play with them, take care of them, remnants of my daycare days I guess, or some biological fuse. i want to get off my porch and walk somewhere. i don't. i'm not sure why. someone recently told me that depressives are actually over-stimulated, making them appear flat. perhaps it's self-indulgent for me to be looking for any more reasons to explain why i sometimes am the way i am, but that sounds about right. the water is so hot it becomes cold, or is it the other way? this is ordinary phenomena. I just read something today, even, that went along the lines of "I wish I could look at a mountain for what it is, not as a comment on my life." How does that relate? because why would i want to do anything, be anything, when simply living a semi-mundane existence seems to burn? That...doesn't explain how that relates. i think there are changes soon. but i always think this. maybe there are always changes. unusual candor. it feels nice. i had to let it into the air, you understand. not unlike bottles into oceans. i wish i could write again. i am so much more who i really am when i write, and i miss her. the journey On the day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice — though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. ‘Mend my life!’ each voice cried. But you didn’t stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognised as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do — determined to save the only life you could save. mary oliver (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 8th, 2007
1:16 am	since i've left boston, my heart litterally feels lighter. (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, October 19th, 2006
12:41 am	PARIS! paris paris paris paris paris. i've been waiting my entire life to go to paris. i'm going now. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, September 8th, 2006
7:12 pm	From Wikipedia: Described by many today as one of America's more "historical cities", Wilkes-Barre has gained considerable bad press (although it is not a major nationally recognized location) since the Knox Mine Disaster. In the 1960 presidential campaign, it garnered attention for its high levels of poverty. In 1972, the damage done by the Agnes flood made international headlines. In the 1990s, the city beacme known for the poor leadership of Mayor McGroarty. In 2001, a Washington Post columnist described Wilkes-Barre as "awful" and "next-door" Scranton as "awfuler", describing the area as one of the worst metropolitan areas in the United States. WELCOME HOME! (3 Comments |Comment on this)