i couldn't tell you anything exactly or for sure. not anymore. not since i went to school. not since my physics teacher made me cry because she refused to answer my question. my questions. i can't shut up, can't stop having the million questions and the million ways. it'll be christmas soon and maybe i won't get anything. maybe i'll get something great. pat will give me something so sweet, like cotton candy, like raw honey, that i want to cry, and that will be good, and the singing at church will be good. things are good. things are bad. that's what i can tell you. totally for sure; things are good, and things are bad.

life plan #10

go to brown. be ira glass.

on the news, it is all suicide bombers, and i am learning to live without sleep or with less sleep. and i read this to myself in the poetry voice, but that's just the way i read it. maybe the words don't fit together at all. and you are thinking. "this shit is jacked." oh, how beautifully articulate you are. how beautifully the sun shines on the coin sitting on the sidewalk. how dear is the sound of the rain. how lovely is putting on a wet bathing suit. how sweet is the hat thrown towards a leaving train. oh how i miss you.

on the news, it is all far away, and i am learning to live far away or further away. and i write this so it will be a pattern, it seems cleaver, but maybe i just think it is cleaver. maybe it is not cleaver at all. and you are deciding. "this writing is shit." oh, how much like me you are. how quickly judgments fall. how softly the day breaks. how silent snow makes the world. how enjoyable is a storm. how sweet is the hat thrown towards a leaving train. oh how i miss you.

Life Plan #9

fuck this being a poet shit. (i calculate limits for fun during english class).

Life Plan #8

move to paris. be a poet.

Life Plan #7

be a hot shot. get rich doing amoral capitalist bullshit. get out early. buy land in a college town. grow carrots. be a writer.

Life Plan #6

go to swarthmore. major in something cool. hang out with helen. go to grad school. be rich and noteworthy. 

Life Plan #5

move to california. go to cca. be a poet. be uncharacteristically chill for the rest of my life.

Life Plans (explanation)

it has become the main topic, and a major cause of stress. i talk about it too much. the sure mass of possibilities is amusing. watch me. 

Life Plan #4

be a poet. be poor. live with helen. be mad when her boyfriend moves in, and messes up our pattern of life. 

Life Plan #3

marry ira glass. 

Life Plan #2

go to reed. visit my grandparents, and other family often. see childhood friends. walk in the rain. 

Life Plan #1

live in a yurt in california in the middle of a fig orchard. have goats, and keep bees. wear a toga. write lyrical poetry. 

it always ends this way, were it is sunday night and tomorrow i will be thrown into the jaws of the week. to i will be torn up, and kept from sleeping, and kept from doing anything except surviving. until it is friday, and the beast spits me out, and i take a shower and call my friends. and then it is sunday again. it always starts this way. 

this isn't done. part one

"She has glass fingers," he says to the doctor, as though it is an explanation. The doctor nods and jots something down before he leans over the woman. She lays on sidewalk. There is a gray sky, and wet cement, and an abandoned stretch of road. Her red hair balloons around her head in almost a halo. Her face is the brightest, the lightest thing in the entire landscape. The ash from the doctor's cigarette falls onto the woman's beaded purse. The man, standing beside the doctor, keeps on  explaining, as he hugs a moth eaten coat around himself, "Her mother was a porclin doll, and her father was a bussiness man."

She had been waiting for the bus when they had come up to her. They held a bible, and asked her for a moment. Her mother had been such a doll, her father such a gentleman; she always excepted invitations. They held her hands, and began to save her soul. The bus came from way down the abandoned street, and they were still holding her hands. It slowed down, and the driver looked at them. It kept going, as they kept saving her soul, as she kept waiting for the bus. 

"He met her at FAO Schwarz, he was there on his lunch break, to buy a birthday present for his niece." The doctor is kneeling in the rain: checking her pulse. Her skin is too smooth, too soft, too cold. The doctor believes for a second that she has died, but then, there is a pulse, and fuck, she's breathing. "He didn't want to just buy her, that seemed weird, you know?" The doctor looks up. "So, instead he courted her." 

"Let's get her to the hospotile." 

"?" 

"I think she'll be okay, she just needs to rest." They are silent as they load her into the back seat of the doctors car. The man slips into the passenger seat, leaving his bike in the street where he'd dropped it when he finally found his friend. And they drive to the hospital. 

i went to church and put together the unite states puzzle. the one with all the states as the pieces, except for the tinny little northeastern states. i need to go write my paper about the colonization of the unite states. but i hate writing papers, so i am not going to do. well. i will do it. i will go do it now. i will stop wasting time and go do it.

brain barf.

and it's not so much that i don't love you as that i have been drawn into a million pieces and don't have enough time for anything anymore anymore. plus i am being forced to memorize literary techecnics which while being vaguely interesting makes me feel like such a douche.  it is bad when you start being like, "i am using repation in this piece in order to achieve the effect of..." which is whatever. i think all that is intuitive. plus it's not meant for me as a writer, but rather me as a student of world literature. which is whatever again. some of those books though, no literary merit. a story sure, but no attention to the language. no thinking about literary techniques.

plus i have a boyfriend, and i have friends, and i have home work, and i have being the president of gay straight alliance, and the being the "you said something non-pc" police, all while still trying to be nice and get some tinny amount of sleep and write in my note book and feel like my own person who is worthy of being alive because i love myself. and i need you here. or something. 

i make up songs on my bike and do creative writing exercises in physics class. the last time i did laundry? washed my hair? good god. the last time i told myself i was going to have down time and did homework instead? like twenty minutes ago. i do, i guess, have a choice. i could leave and walk out and move into the forest. i could stream FUCK GETTING INTO A GOOD COLLEGE! really loud, but the thing is, that would be the hardest thing. the least socially okay thing to do. there are all these things i can't say because they aren't socially okay, and so i really want to say them. and then, because... 

whatever. 

last night i had this whole break through thing that WE ARE ALL TOTALLY FUCKED. that me worrying about my gpa is such bullshit, because there are storms every week, and the storms are destroying things and we are all so totally fucked. nobody seems to think that it is so totally hopeless. they talk about the storms, and they talk about the conference in Copenhagen, but the things don't fit together. no one seems to think that we are all going to die. that doing anything except preparing to raise beet greens, and make housing out of stuff we find in the land fill. when the magnitude of it hits, it hits, and it feels so totally empty, that i have to push it out and worry about my economics home work. 

i hope it's not too late. it's never really too late. people will always keep fucking and more babies will keep showing up, and then even if there are decades and decades where things are shitty and hopeless then maybe someday we'll (humanity) will come out of it. or maybe we won't, maybe we'll all be dead, and the dominate life form will be a certain type of mold, or something. which is cool too. in the big huge unbelievably large scheme of things.

but at the same time it is impossible to think about life like that. i have to think about tomorrow and the next day, and then maybe the next year. because that is what i have control over. i have no control over the ball of rock we live on. if i am really lucky i will be able change the way one species interacts with one part, of something on the surface of the ball of rock. i will be able to make some people treat each other a little bit nicer, or have some shift in the way people think about an issue. that is if i am amazingly lucky. or burdened. 

i feel like it is a burden. feeling smart and able and inspired. being able to put the pieces together feels like a duty. to make shit a little better. to make this all a little better.

and so i memorize my literary terms because i think that maybe, not even because i care, but because i think that proving to someone that i am able to, will make them think that i am smart, and them thinking i am smart will put me into a place where i have more power, and having more power will only allow me to do more good things and be better angled to save the world. i know how words sound good together. i don't give a shit what the fancy word for that is. i don't give a shit about fancy words. 

(i do, however, like fancy cheese) 

My school is some crazy public high school who's goal is to send every single kid to college. Which is a really great goal, but it is hell. It's the first day and we come in and sit down and out principle gets onto the announcements and brags about how much scholarship money last year's senior class got, and how well we did on various standardized tests. This is his way of motivating us, and it totally works, but it also has the effect of making my chest feel like a brick. 

    There is gym, which is it's own hell hole with the girls who make me feel weird because I don't shave my legs because shaving legs is for losers who like to be naked and take long showers. Physics gets boring in the first ten minutes on of class on the first day, and people said "gay" in the bad way. 

    I want to drop out and become a poet, but that seems like a really bad idea because it would mean I would have no assured way of supporting myself. Of course, it's not like going to college will assure me a job either. Especially not if I major in something like "creative writing," or "peace and conflict studies." I feel trapped, and I am in all the hardest classes. School is going to take over my life, and not in the good way. 

it is the last friday before i start school; the last friday where i don't care that it's friday.

i have a very small "x" number of hours to read a very large "y" number of pages.

because i was being thrifty the dope was not bought. the "dope" being my calc text book. i am the first person in my family to take calc. i would not be the first person to smoke dope. unless dope was is a code word for "calc text book." i think i would be the first person to smoke a calc text book.

reasons why i shouldn't do my summer reading:
1. it's summer.
2. the books suck.
3. there is only a fifty percent chance that doing/not doing it will effect my grade.
4. sparknotes, baby!
5. the book is poorly written.
6. i could rewrite the book so that it would be half as long.
7. the book, is really really long.
8. every second spent doing summer reading is a second where i am not having fun.
9. or learning about something interesting.
10. or worrying about boys.
11. or updating my blog.
12. or making money.
13. or doing drugs.
14. or selling drugs.
15. or making money selling drugs.
16. or using my imagination.
17. summer reading kills imagination.
18. and also babies.
19. SUMMER READING KILLS BABIES!
20. i don't want to.

1. last night i realized that i have been living in buffalo for pretty much exactly four years. i thought that that was worth noting. that is a long time. one-forth of my life. a little bit less, actually, because of when my birthday is. 

2. i keep having these dreams that i'm at cca. they are good dreams, but then i wake up, i am sad, because that is not actually what happened. what actually happened is that i came home, and had to do my summer reading. 

3. does reading a book for school, have the ability to actually make the book worse? that would be an interesting research project. to measure the enjoyment people get out of books if they are assigned them verses if they chose them. although it would be virtually impossible to get clean data, because you would have to assign the book to the control group, so...

4. cherry deleted her facebook. i texted her, and she said "i done spending my whole life on the computer." i should also delete my facebook, and this blog, and also my email. i should go live in the woods, and kill rabbits, and eat them, and make jackets out of their fur. 

my friends are finally coming home!!!!!!!!

 this weekend it was lily, and i called her, and was like, "oh my god! let's go on a walk in the graveyard." which might seem a little bit weird, but it was actually completely normal. i'd say two fifths of my friendship with lily has been conducted within the graveyard (and then two fifths at church, and one fifth everywhere else). so we went to the graveyard and wandered around for hours. it was amazing. we found parts that we had never found before, and we spend a lot of time in the graveyard. like this weird lawn part with a huge weird sculpture, and a big grave for the goodyear family, and a bench, and some other stuff. i abandoned lily to write a poem. the poem messed with the idea of "blessed be the..." which feels like a fitting way to write a poem in a graveyard. and guess what? we DIDN'T FIGHT AT ALL. which is weird, especially for us.  

and then this morning i got onto facebook and there was kathryn, and she's like, "i'm home! let me call you." so she called me and we talked about which boys i'd seen where and with whom, and then we cried (metaphorically) because all the boys we thought were cute freshman year have gone away to college, and it is tragic. the only saving grace is now boys in our grade are getting cute. we talked about how everyone is getting cute, about how much more attractive we have become. it sounds really stupid now that i am typing it, but at the time, on the phone, it felt profound. because, fuck! we are growing up! we are going to be upper class men! the big kids can't make us do stuff that we don't want to do! yay! and school is about to start! and i have to do my summer reading! and i am half way through highschool! and my life is on the brink of something! only it's not! or, not more then it ever was! or, life is always on the brink! or, i am always somewhere! always trying to make things seem profound when really, they are stupid! 

at cca i got a lecture about how using "!" is not enough alone to make things dramatic. maybe i forgot to learn that well enough! just saying! ha! ha! ha!

it was an suv

on the interstate

and outside the 

sun was setting. 

the suv drove 

straight into 

the sunset, which 

was at first grand, 

and then just drips 

as it drained itself 

into the bottle 

that the man

at the end of 

the world drinks 

from when it's 

dark and he

is alone. 

it was dark, 

and the man at 

the end of the 

world was alone. 

in the suv, 

we were not alone. 

as we drove into 

the sunset, 

your sister listened 

to her ipod,

your mom talked 

about retiring.

the man at the end 

of the world drinks 

from the bottle of 

light, because 

he is scared of the dark.

i held your head

and promised 

that it would all be 

okay. 

it was a bike, 

on the street,

and all around 

it was sunny, 

and all around 

it was rainy, 

and there was a 

rainbow. 

right before dawn, 

the man at the end of the 

world starts to panic. 

what if the sun, 

forgets to rise?

it was a stupid thing 

to promise you. 

and then way off, 

there is a slightly 

lighter shade of dark

and he takes the 

last sip.

i rode towards 

the end of the 

rainbow, looking 

for the gold.  

before then i gave up, 

and came home.

i got something in my eye, 

i told you that 

i wouldn't cry,

not again,

not in 

the soft womb

of the afternoon.

as though 

i am 

still

floating.

where time 

is

liquid. 

where breath takes no

effort. 

where the music 

is the sound of

our 

heart beats, 

and the sound of 

wind, 

and the sound of 

highway, 

and the sound of 

bugs,

and the sound of 

breath.

breathing. 

i talk in monolog.  

saying 

nothing. 

i'm like you only, 

i move my lips to 

say nothing. 

i put effort into 

saying nothing.

say something. 

please.

it's still in my eye.

it still hurts, 

and i want to make

the thing in my eye

symbolic of 

something. 

but life 

is not

a symbol 

for anything. 

despite what english teachers try to tell you. try to tell me. try to tell us.

please note

a) i am not actually a poet

b) who reads this blog? is it no one? is it holly and i? or is it other people too? i need to know! please tell me. 

I HATE MY OWN POETRY 

it's just prose,

split between, 

lines. with nonstandard

everything. 

cleaver, huh?

i wrote a love letter  last night. i like to write love letters, but no one ever sees them, except me. i see them. anyway, there was a line i was proud of, and that you will get too see, "i want to be free like a bad simile that will die on the floor of my messy bed room." it does the thing where it starts out taking you in one direction and then switches midway, and it's like "what?" 

sarah (at cca) had some great line like that, it had cows on the side of the road somewhere, and then either a sex or a drugs reference, or maybe it didn't, maybe i'm making that up, or rather memories are being fused together. it was a good line though, really. 

i went to seattle with my parents, and we stayed at my mom's friend's house. they have dogs, and whenever i was eating the dogs would crowd around me and breath all over. all i could smell was their dog breath and then eating didn't seem very enjoyable anymore.

you want to lose weight? huh, you should buy a dog. no. really! between having the dog breath all over you while you are trying to eat and taking the dog on walks, you are sure to lose at least a billion and a half pounds. so much weight, in fact, that you will become a void, a black hole of matter.

back to reality. i am in a hotel, and they are playing smooth jazz; i fucking hate smooth jazz. really it's the worst. boring old people music. you think you're classy, don't you? smooth jazz is for losers.

we are going berry picking with my grandparents this afternoon, and then dinner at some people's house, and then sleep. tuesday, i get to go home. i can't wait to be home and hangout in my bed, and walk in the grave yard, and eat pasta for 4 meals a day. also, i'll catch up on npr listening, and ooohhhh! this american lifes! there are probably like three brand new ones! and my report card! and i'll cry because my grades won't be as perfect as i'd like them to be. it'll be fantastic, really. i can't wait.

i'm not going to make this perfect-there is no perfect anyway. except today, today was perfect. we went to a party, and it was really fun. my mom made tamales, and bands played all day.

the kids i knew when i was little, or three years ago; we stood on the porch, and danced. we sang too loudly. bumped hips.

and then we put on lipstick and kissed each other, so that i felt like a pimp with big red kiss marks on my checks. and then we took photo's to put on facebook, because that is of our generation.

then clyde played, and i love clyde. clyde sounded better then ever before.

and then the song about looking at the sky and feeling little, and i layed out on the grass, and the bats were coming out. i felt tinny out under the sky, and the beautiful green of the trees.

i got a ride back with some old people (mid 40's) and talked about this american life and story telling. my fall back topic.

finally, cold tamales and avocado, and a talk about gender, and gender dynamics, and blah blah blah. but no, really, it was interesting.

it's not hot yet. it will get hot, and then the only thing i will be able to do is lay in the cold bath and read old new yorkers and be a snot. be a snot? yeah, what is more snotty then laying around reading old new yorkers? i am sixteen, and all ready i will only read publications with the word "new york" in their names. everything else is crap. which isn't completly true, sometimes i read zines, and sometimes i read literary journals, and sometimes i read actual books. but those things just make me more of a snot. what is more snotty then reading little books that you can only get your hands on at certain stores, or through your friends? and literary journals? please*. books? well, okay, books are for the common man., but not really, tv is for the common man. i watch tv sometimes, the office. i can tell you all about michael scott. the office is what i talk about at school.

*i would like to point out the me reading literary journals is a very new thing. you know, just so i don't feel like such a fake, leading you on or anything.

There is only one way to listen to music.

I know that making such a statement will get me into trouble with all sorts of shady characters. Smart-ass kids who will say,

"Duh! With your ears!" And even smartier-assier kids who will say,

"Um, technically, if you are talking about being able to interpret sound waves, there are many ways in which..." And then there are the hipsters and old timers who will try to tell me about vinyl, and the joys of seeing music live. A few losers might even try to convince me that tapes are best,

"The commitment to the whole album!" Finally there is the Mp3,

"A whole wall of records fits into my pocket!"

So actually, I wouldn't make such a broad statement. Instead I will say,

"There is one way in which I love to listen to music-- it is better then all those ways you tried to tell me about."

I was riding my bike back to my aunt's house. It had been a hot day, and the air was still warm. I passed a house, and leaking out of it was drums, guitar, and bass. It sounded better then anything else.

Except for this other time.

My family and I were walking through the cold towards a restaurant and from across the street is music. The music sounded good, really good. My dad and I hung out on the street and danced while my mom went in and got us a table.

If music is art, and if art is about communicating a feeling, then there is no way to hear music more purely, then snooping on band practices. Band practice is where feelings are first taken out of the body and converted into songs. Walking past you get to hear a piece of this process.

Of course, there has to be magic too. The conversion of feeling to song has to be working. Everyone has to be in tune and in time, and you have to be there.

It doesn't always sound good; I've only included two examples of hearing bands practicing and it being amazing, and I know I've walked past way more band practices then that. But that's part of the magic: there is no expectation. When you put on a record, or go see a band you want something; you want to feel something. When you're walking in the night though, you're just walking in the night. There is no album to be committed to, no wall of records to force into your pocket; it's a just a moment, a feeling.

i am still trying to figure out how things should be on this blog. should i be proper and use proper capitalization and grammatically correct sentences, or should i fuck it and use crappy internet style capitalization and grammar? i don't know yet. i'll decide later. i'll let you in on the choice too, so that then we are all clear on the rules and you, whoever you are, can tell me when i mess up. at this point though, there is no mess up. it's all proper. unless you don't understand; unless i don't want you to understand.

(secret that is not a very good secret: i am addicted to commas. i use them too much, and kids at school, they, they make fun of me for it. sucks, right?)

Wow! Look here! I started a blog! Not as though me starting a blog is amazing. All across the internet there are blogs I've abandoned; started on a whim and then forgotten about. I hope that this blog, isn't like the rest of those blogs. I hope it won't turn into even another abandon blog; sitting on a server somewhere using up electricity, and hogging a clever url.

I do have reason to think this will be different.

This summer I studied creative writing at CCA, and now, I feel like a writer. Everything is the same, only now everything makes sense.

"I'm neurotic, because I'm a writer. I'm bad at being social, because I'm a writer. I over thing everything, because I'm a writer. I feel constantly conflicted and confused, because I am a writer." Having a reason, even a dumb reason, makes it okay.

This doesn't mean that I am for definitely sure going to be a writer when I grow up. Which is something that I worry about a lot: growing up.

What does being a grown up even mean?

I realize that I'll never cross a line, where suddenly everything is clear and makes sense and is beautiful and easy and perfect. I understand, or I think I understand, that I'll always be wallowing around in this weird muddy river. Thinking only about the next step because the water is pushing me and I don't want to fall, but I will fall, because we all fall. I'll die, and the whole thing will be over.

Which could lead us into the God issue. Which is in itself interesting, and I have a lot to say about it, but I am suppose to have fun. I am suppose to break loose. Be crazy. Have fun. Stop being so god danm serious all the time. Worrying about worrying. Fuck it.