sometimes i catch myself talking and my voice sounds like claire’s. sometimes i realize that my point of view is practically adult. yes, usually when i identify myself specifically in this journal i’m using a younger voice, a simpler style. sometimes i do have that higher voice, that more straightforward outlook. but i know how to talk “big”. i know how to fit in as an adult in my system. it wasn’t always this way. it started sometime in our freshman year in college when i started to be a front again. i guess ever since then i’ve been stranded somewhere between college-student and nine-year-old. and yes, i am the intersection, nothing wrong with a nine-year-old college student.
Continue reading ‘the man with the child in his eyes’
Archive for February, 2003
oh, the terribly late pictures, making an appearance. these are pretty much all clie snappings from school and suchlike, and hence small and cute.
Continue reading ‘winter quarter’
today is the worst day i have had in a long time. and i guess i use worst to mean most difficult. nothing happened that was bad, on the outside; this was entirely internal. i got through it, got home, and treated myself gently, sought respite, sort of got a little. i reeled. i am just now coming down from the shock of it, i think, and trying to figure out how to proceed. with compassion, with respect, with mercy, and with functionality too. i want to say it has never been like this. maybe it has, and maybe i’m wrong. but maybe it hasn’t.
i’m not sure who’s been out, either. consider everything to be uil (using i loosely.)
Continue reading ‘every day hurts a little more’
i keep starting to write so many different things, journal entries, emails, and stopping, erasing, deleting. falling back into silence. why is this?
i don’t have much time to write now. but god. this sense is clouding me that i couldn’t possibly manage to find the right words, and that anything i would have to say would be pointless and worthless anyway. the silence is deafening. the imaginary world is so contemptful of me. and i just lapse back, just give up, just erase.
this morning i am curled up inside of myself, shaking shaking nauseated and i have to go to school and i’m just… not… functional
Continue reading ‘how hard we tried’
i am panicked today, gasping for air. i have this homework and i just can’t seem to get started. i’ve summed up the whole homework already: “In English, reflexive pronouns are used when two or more semantic roles attached to a single verb or adjective are filled by the same entity,” my first sentence, my only sentence. but i need to stretch this out into something supported, something detailed, something justified. and i try to make myself work on it and my brains slips and wanders and ducks away from me and i find myself, for instance, at the university of bangor’s linguistics department. or noam chomsky’s bibliography at mit.edu. wandering.
i have decided to write a journal entry, take a shower, clean up our desk, and then hopefully get e, or cynthia if he’s not around, to take over for the day. syntax isn’t the only thing we have to do. we have a math midterm on friday.
Continue reading ’so this is the measure of me’
i can’t post to this journal when i’m logged in as nymph, because we’re supposed to be strictly anonymous here, so that it’s okay to switch and be just vague when writing. hmph.
i’m depressed tonight and desperately horny. my daddy fucked me but it was over so quick. i am afraid i’ll never get to be what i need to be. i want to go out i want people to look at me to eat me up, it is so hard it is so desperate this arousal, ever since my dream last night, and it didn’t help that claire had sex with her new boy and it was really hot and it’s just… sex sex sex and it is not fair, my dream was so nice i was walking down the street with only a blanket to cover me up and i was holding it really weird so most of me was visible and my nipples kept working their way out from under the blanket.
Continue reading ’sweet dreams are made of this’
i am not kerry. but this will do.
i am so shaken i can barely type. here, where no one will see, or even know to look. everything has been a cover. i feel netted. i feel lost. everything is a lie. no one will believe me. they thought of everything. everything.
Continue reading ’so this is it’
i have nine hangnails on my right hand.
that means out of every possible location for a hangnail on that hand, only one is smooth unbroken skin. the left side of my pinky.
they are in all different stages of pain and newness and hugeness, but the fact remains that they all exist.
i also have a cankersore and a huge pimple.
i think i must be stressed out.
Continue reading ‘the instincts you feel are truth’
(second person pronouns refer to dani, for those needing context) no, i don’t resent it. so why are my eyes lined greyly with tears?
no, i understand. but i wish you could have disengaged more kindly.
no, it is all right that i am too much for you. it is just not all right that i have isolated myself so much that you form the sole backup of my slim little support network, the sole second. it is not your fault that the tears are running down my face now. i’m not angry at you, not really. and i’m not sarcastic, i really do mean it, i really am not angry, although i’m paranoid that my words will come off that i am somehow sarcastic or mean.
mainly i just wish the whole exchange could have been kinder. i was trying to be kind but i know i could have been much better. my vision is just so blurry, and i’m not making excuses. everything’s okay. this whole fight will fade easily away, and i mean it that i’m not mad.
Continue reading ‘is there anything that i can say to you?’
does my creative division reward me with permanent mediocrity? do i waste my spark on this journal, on songs, on so many projects at once that they are all doomed to failure?
i don’t want to believe that my allotment is so finite. other folks i know of seem to produce similar quality in most of what they do. good journal-writers turn out excellent poetry, etc etc. but i can see so tangibly how i am limited. and i wonder if i spend all my words here, on these thirteen-or-so years of words and words and words because it is so comfortable by now. it is also writing that goes nowhere, out into its little corner of the web and does nothing. i suppose if i wrote stories, or poetry, it would not be different. but somehow it would.
Continue reading ‘waiting for the spark’
