Big Hair, Big Lashes

I want to be in a super glam girl band.

I Love You Really, I Don't Mean This

Fuck you for making me wonder
Fuck you for making me think
even for one second
that your heart is changed
I need to know you love me completely
Every second of the day
or I need to know you don't
But I won't let you play
any games with my time
my summer's too precious
too porous and fleeting
to spend it dreaming of you
if you wont be meeting
me halfway along
If you expect me to wait
I need a good reason
I need to be sure
cause you've had your time
to see other girls

I hate you
for seeming to be
better at this
whole deal than me

You Were Right About The Stars

Wilco soothes my aching brain. 'I assassin down the avenue' - so good

Spending my day in the library again, I am more concerned with design and color and wind and folded paper than I am with taking a literal definition of art from a stream of consciousness book for an analytical essay.

The trees have been blowing dried buds in on Nora and I where we sit with our open windows. The big green leafy one has been flirting with the dainty white flowered lovely.

I've been reading and loving www.ohjoy.blogs.com.

Bookish Angels

I am in the library and the pouring that I've been anticipating has finally come.
My dear Nora and I went and rested our foreheads against the frame of an open window, kneeling on a bench. I stretched my arms out into the rain. The breeze alternated between warm air flowing out from behind us and cool air blowing in from outside. The rain came in waves of monsoon through spring shower. Sometimes the water drops were huge, plodding down from the sky to pebble my arms. Water dripped on the inside of my elbow from the window. When the wind blew droplets into my eyes i put on my sunglasses so I wouldn't have to close them. We watched girls with and without umbrellas running and tripping through the wet. The lightning and thunder was exhilarating. I felt so refreshed, washed clean of my stress over finals. Gorgeous.
I've been in and out of the library since one today. I am getting jack done. I have come to the conclusion that I don't know what makes a good essay, let alone how to write one.

These bookish angels peering down from the rafters
seem stern and malicious some days
watching over generations of students
trying to mend lazy ways
they hold books and scrolls looming over us
like prison guards waiting to strike
I can't get work done in their unblinking gaze
but they keep me as long as they like
releasing me into the grim light of dawn
to drag myself back to my room
I feel their disapproving glares on my back
as I plod ever on towards my doom

$1,000,000

I am so not engaged in my schoolwork right now. My favorite classes are over so all those long, hard, satisfying days struggling with my work in the art studio are over. Letting it all loose in improv sessions for acting class is gone. All that I am left with are essays and final exams.
I was reminded the other day that grades actually have jack shit to do with how smart you are. I keep trying to tell myself that I don't care about them but I am so caught up in the idea that they matter in some way.
Of course I don't actually have any real interest in doing something with my life that requires getting good grades.
The whole exercise feels pointless.

Today is one of those odd late spring warm, cloudy days.
I stood underneath the million dollar tree earlier
It was still wet from the rain last night, drying slowly in the moist air
It is called the million dollar tree because my school had to redesign the plans for the library additions when students protested cutting down the tree. They lost 1 million dollars to save it.
And how very worth it it was
this behemoth is priceless
his skin is the wrinkled gray of an elephant
Bulbous warts decorate his trunk
And every spring he retains his youth
With paper thin, silk soft new leaves
they are green tinged with rose
filtering light through the shelter of his branches

All The Things I can't Remember

I am surfing the web looking for a reflection
The garish neon green of new buds out my window looks wrong against the dull browns of wood and the cold greys of clouds reflected in water.
Every now and then I feel like crying, mourning for a little girl who I can't help. There is so much that I can't remember from my childhood. I only remember the way it made me feel. People ask me what was so bad about my father. I find it impossible to produce an answer in words. How do you express the incredible guilt and fear, confusion and desperation created in a child's heart through years of mental abuse and manipulation. The word brainwashing sounds to people like something out of a science fiction novel, a spy movie. They don't realize the real world applications it can have on a child when her torturer is one of the people she is supposed to trust and love more than anyone else, one of the people who is supposed to take care of her.