born of a walk under the stars

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 07:51:18 GMT

Today it dawned on me: I've felt jaded before, but now I feel bitter and cynical too. And you know what? For the very first time I understand and agree with cynicism. I've always thought of people who are cynical simply as people who are unhappy, but it isn't as simple as that, is it? It is rarely as simple as that.

It seems to me that a healthy dose of cynicism is needed to help you get through life without getting completely raped by whomever is bigger, stronger, or wearing a more disarming smile. Sure, we'll all rape others at least once or twice in our own lifetimes and some of us will get more than our fair share of it up our butts. But considering how thoroughly and irreversibly screwed up the world seems at times, I'd say that getting raped from time to time may not be completely negative. I mean, you get pushed down once too many times and you start to fight back, right? It's either that or you roll over, play dead and hope that this raping will go more gently. And once you start doing that, you're destined for a life of taking everything up your ass. So, you go and enroll in self-defense, adopt a bad-ass attitude (pun intended) and wear steel-toed boots to show the next mother-daughter-father-son-dog-corpse-fucker what you are all about. You learn the necessary moves and you start kicking some ass. And you stop looking back into dark places.

I've considered both actions, and frankly, I'm more for raping than being raped. I've been in both positions before, and I have to tell you that I like being a 1 much more than being a 0. So, this is my declaration of independence from victimhood, this is my coming out and getting up statement: World, watch your ass, because I've had enough of taking things up mine.

McBrinee Bits

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 04:37:47 GMT

My Old English prof. is probably the nerdiest person I've ever known. Compared to him, my other professors seem...well, less bookish. This is not to say he is without humour, as he is actually also one of the funniest people I've ever known. Needless to say, I enjoy his classes very much. I can't say that a class has gone by without him making at least one funny remark that managed to make the whole class laugh out loud. I've actually heard other students talking after class about how funny he was that day (they were actually comparing his level of funniness on a class-to-class basis...). So, since the weather has been so grim lately, I thought I would bring you some thoughts from the curious mind of Prof. McBrine...

After the TAs have been introduced to us and have both left the class...

"What did you think about them?" *Smirk* "They're gone, you can tell me the truth... No, but seriously, we're really lucky! They are great TAs; U of T's Medieval Studies program is very selective...issues very rigorous tests, to say the least... You couldn't have asked for better TAs, really, well...unless I was a triplet." *Beams*

On memorizing personal pronouns:

"What you really need to know for reading poetry is the third person pronouns. You need to have that down, at least. So record yourself saying it, put it on your iPod, and listen to it when you're on-the-go." *People laugh* "I don't listen to personal pronouns...I don't do that." *Quietly but proudly* "I listen to Chaucer."

Reading from the textbook:

"And now the next section.... One Last Wrinkle...? *Gives text a look of utter disgust* What the...this...is just...a...riDICulous title.

On his vacation:

"So at the time, I had had it with my Old English thesis. So to get away from all of that, I went on a relaxing trip with my wife! Where did I go? BEDE'S WORLD!" *Shows pictures of Bede's World on screen* "This looks like a shack, but it is actually the historical site in Jarrow where the Venerable Bede was believed to have lived 1300 years ago!" *Points to wooden chair in picture* "And that is the chair that Bede may or may not have sat upon!"

On memorizing OE grammar:

"You really just have to learn it. Old English is a very ambiguous language, much more so than other ancient languages (and he would know because he knows about seven ancient languages...). And you're going to need to know it for next semester, when we go on to read poetry. Or else, after Christmas break, it's just going to PUNCH-YOU-in-the-STOMACH!!" *Punches air and displays excessively cheerful grin*

Most of the time you just had to be there to see the humour in the things he says. He just has the funniest expressions and body language. Anyway, I hope that gave you at least a little giggle. Happy Midterms! :P

* * *

OK. WOW.

I just heard uttered on late night radio:

A middle-aged man on his girlfriend

"She has brought the colours of love back onto the palette of my heart and together we will make a masterpiece of love."

I've never heard anyone talk like that other than Michael Scott from The Office. Really, he just said that entire sentence without any pauses. It's not my taste, although nonetheless sweet...but wow...wow...

What do you say to that?...

離思

Tue, 29 May 2007 06:48:16 GMT

曾經滄海難為水
除卻巫山不是雲
取次花叢懶回顧
半緣修道半緣君

        元稹

re-visiting revising re-constructing destroying restoring reclaiming

Tue, 29 May 2007 03:35:55 GMT

love

* * *

move until strength gives out
love until you are no longer sure
fight for as long as it takes
struggle until pain makes sense
or
until you can't
die a thousand deaths a hundred thousand deaths a million countless deaths until you can't remember anymore what hate is until boundaries are no longer clearly drawn between you and i until we are human once again
until we are united again
let your tears fall until you find a reason not to cry
let them fall long enough to be caught
scream until your inner pain comes out: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU WORLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLDDDDDDDDDDD FUCK YOU!! (or whatever else you need to say)
shout until your inner love comes out
and you know
everything will be alright

* *   * * *            *

thank you for being with me for so long

*   * **

      *

Thu, 12 Oct 2006 04:21:51 GMT

I run upon a glorious carpet of autumn leaves.
Sable trunks glide by. Their yearning arms reach ever skywards, dotted with flickering gold, shining in night's embrace. Cool, clean air fills my lungs, lifts my heart, and falls out--melting with it every thought, worry, doubt and fear. I am clear. As the wind comes, I stop. My heart pounds in my throat. A smile comes to my cheeks; a laugh breaks loose. All the air in my body is spent with this laugh. I breathe in relief and watch as the wind envelopes me--as the leaves twirl and float, as they fall and rise again, veiled by the moonlight in the sweet, lonesome darkness.

Sat, 23 Sep 2006 05:29:08 GMT

It isn't because I've stopped caring about my old friends that I've stopped posting entries. It's just that every time I try to write something it seems that there is nowhere to start, nowhere to begin to describe how different I am now from who I used to be. Quintessentially, of course, I am still very much the same person and I can't pretend that I can escape the human condition of subjectivity and really view myself from an all critical, sensible standpoint. But the point is: I've changed a lot. Since we last met/talked, I've stopped wearing make up, grown my hair out, and decided to keep it dye-free. These exterior changes reflect both a shift in my attitude and my outlook on life. A lot, as you would know, happens in a year and a half. I'm tired of being afraid of what other people think about me. This doesn't mean I'm immune to the words and thoughts of other people; it just means that I've learned to slowly let go of somethings that, in the grand scheme of things, are not important. I don't want to be that girl who feels like she has to look perfect all the time. I don't want to be controlled by ugly insecurities. I want to be able to recognize myself in the mirror and be happy about the person I see, every day. And most of the time, I am. Right now, at this moment in time, during this period of my life--I am happy. And although I haven't talked to you in a long time, I want you to know that I have been happy during the time we've been apart. I want you to know that I am okay. And I hope that you are too.

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 03:43:33 GMT

It just occurred to me, after several months, that some people may not have gotten my email about my new msn address. So here it is: tinyfeather@gmail.com. Email me though, if you want quicker responses or more thoughtful ones anyway. Most of the time I'm on MSN I'm also working, so email really is the surer way to maintain contact with me. BTW, don't send anything more to the cathrine account, I can't get in that one anymore cause I'm stupid and forgot my own password. Yup.

Diane Arbus

Fri, 10 Feb 2006 18:59:37 GMT

"The world is a Noah's ark on the sea of eternity containing all the endless pairs of things, irreconcilable and inseparable and heat will always long for cold and back for front and smiles for tears and mutt for jeff and no for yes with the most unutterable nostalgia there is."

Tue, 01 Nov 2005 22:37:38 GMT

tinyfeather's Halloween party:

avix dressed as the Archbishop of Asmeecat.
backpains dressed as Barbra Streisand.
comfortblepants dressed as David Beckham.
exasperatedsigh dressed as a cigarette.
fey_esmeraldine dressed as a sub-adjunct sheet spreader.
jellyb dressed as a witch.
katiepuff dressed as Franklin D. Roosevelt.
myanthem dressed as a cow.
ninebythree dressed as Bugs Bunny.
owenadamowen dressed as a sword.
painisuniversal dressed as Mary-Kate Olsen with her very own conjoined Ashley.
paper_mate dressed as Barbra Streisand.
selfsolace dressed as a bottle of Caninza.
skittle_kitten dressed as Michael Vick's father.
sorou dressed as a character from Harry Potter and the World of Strength.
space_machine dressed as a peanut.
tangerinefield dressed as a convenient goblin.
teflonheart dressed as a disturbing self-made character called "Slimy Burgerhumperdinck".
the_long_road dressed as a new member of the Wu-Tang Clan, Pesty Hunter.
to_subsist dressed as your aunt.
v_ersu_s dressed as Bill Clinton, though it looked more like the Archbishop of Tarblatoid.
wonderboy_frost dressed as Captain Picard from "Star Trek".

Throw your own party at the Hallomeme!
Created with phpNonsense

Sun, 30 Oct 2005 18:58:12 GMT

Wislawa Szymborska – Nobel Lecture

Nobel Lecture, December 7, 1996

The Poet and the World

They say the first sentence in any speech is always the hardest. Well, that one's behind me, anyway. But I have a feeling that the sentences to come - the third, the sixth, the tenth, and so on, up to the final line - will be just as hard, since I'm supposed to talk about poetry. I've said very little on the subject, next to nothing, in fact. And whenever I have said anything, I've always had the sneaking suspicion that I'm not very good at it. This is why my lecture will be rather short. All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Contemporary poets are skeptical and suspicious even, or perhaps especially, about themselves. They publicly confess to being poets only reluctantly, as if they were a little ashamed of it. But in our clamorous times it's much easier to acknowledge your faults, at least if they're attractively packaged, than to recognize your own merits, since these are hidden deeper and you never quite believe in them yourself ... When filling in questionnaires or chatting with strangers, that is, when they can't avoid revealing their profession, poets prefer to use the general term "writer" or replace "poet" with the name of whatever job they do in addition to writing. Bureaucrats and bus passengers respond with a touch of incredulity and alarm when they find out that they're dealing with a poet. I suppose philosophers may meet with a similar reaction. Still, they're in a better position, since as often as not they can embellish their calling with some kind of scholarly title. Professor of philosophy - now that sounds much more respectable.

But there are no professors of poetry. This would mean, after all, that poetry is an occupation requiring specialized study, regular examinations, theoretical articles with bibliographies and footnotes attached, and finally, ceremoniously conferred diplomas. And this would mean, in turn, that it's not enough to cover pages with even the most exquisite poems in order to become a poet. The crucial element is some slip of paper bearing an official stamp. Let us recall that the pride of Russian poetry, the future Nobel Laureate Joseph Brodsky was once sentenced to internal exile precisely on such grounds. They called him "a parasite," because he lacked official certification granting him the right to be a poet ...

Several years ago, I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Brodsky in person. And I noticed that, of all the poets I've known, he was the only one who enjoyed calling himself a poet. He pronounced the word without inhibitions.

Just the opposite - he spoke it with defiant freedom. It seems to me that this must have been because he recalled the brutal humiliations he had experienced in his youth.

In more fortunate countries, where human dignity isn't assaulted so readily, poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind. And yet it wasn't so long ago, in this century's first decades, that poets strove to shock us with their extravagant dress and eccentric behavior. But all this was merely for the sake of public display. The moment always came when poets had to close the doors behind them, strip off their mantles, fripperies, and other poetic paraphernalia, and confront - silently, patiently awaiting their own selves - the still white sheet of paper. For this is finally what really counts.

It's not accidental that film biographies of great scientists and artists are produced in droves. The more ambitious directors seek to reproduce convincingly the creative process that led to important scientific discoveries or the emergence of a masterpiece. And one can depict certain kinds of scientific labor with some success. Laboratories, sundry instruments, elaborate machinery brought to life: such scenes may hold the audience's interest for a while. And those moments of uncertainty - will the experiment, conducted for the thousandth time with some tiny modification, finally yield the desired result? - can be quite dramatic. Films about painters can be spectacular, as they go about recreating every stage of a famous painting's evolution, from the first penciled line to the final brush-stroke. Music swells in films about composers: the first bars of the melody that rings in the musician's ears finally emerge as a mature work in symphonic form. Of course this is all quite naive and doesn't explain the strange mental state popularly known as inspiration, but at least there's something to look at and listen to.

But poets are the worst. Their work is hopelessly unphotogenic. Someone sits at a table or lies on a sofa while staring motionless at a wall or ceiling. Once in a while this person writes down seven lines only to cross out one of them fifteen minutes later, and then another hour passes, during which nothing happens ... Who could stand to watch this kind of thing?

I've mentioned inspiration. Contemporary poets answer evasively when asked what it is, and if it actually exists. It's not that they've never known the blessing of this inner impulse. It's just not easy to explain something to someone else that you don't understand yourself.

When I'm asked about this on occasion, I hedge the question too. But my answer is this: inspiration is not the exclusive privilege of poets or artists generally. There is, has been, and will always be a certain group of people whom inspiration visits. It's made up of all those who've consciously chosen their calling and do their job with love and imagination. It may include doctors, teachers, gardeners - and I could list a hundred more professions. Their work becomes one continuous adventure as long as they manage to keep discovering new challenges in it. Difficulties and setbacks never quell their curiosity. A swarm of new questions emerges from every problem they solve. Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know."

There aren't many such people. Most of the earth's inhabitants work to get by. They work because they have to. They didn't pick this or that kind of job out of passion; the circumstances of their lives did the choosing for them. Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries. And there's no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far as this goes.

And so, though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.

At this point, though, certain doubts may arise in my audience. All sorts of torturers, dictators, fanatics, and demagogues struggling for power by way of a few loudly shouted slogans also enjoy their jobs, and they too perform their duties with inventive fervor. Well, yes, but they "know." They know, and whatever they know is enough for them once and for all. They don't want to find out about anything else, since that might diminish their arguments' force. And any knowledge that doesn't lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life. In the most extreme cases, cases well known from ancient and modern history, it even poses a lethal threat to society.

This is why I value that little phrase "I don't know" so highly. It's small, but it flies on mighty wings. It expands our lives to include the spaces within us as well as those outer expanses in which our tiny Earth hangs suspended. If Isaac Newton had never said to himself "I don't know," the apples in his little orchard might have dropped to the ground like hailstones and at best he would have stooped to pick them up and gobble them with gusto. Had my compatriot Marie Sklodowska-Curie never said to herself "I don't know", she probably would have wound up teaching chemistry at some private high school for young ladies from good families, and would have ended her days performing this otherwise perfectly respectable job. But she kept on saying "I don't know," and these words led her, not just once but twice, to Stockholm, where restless, questing spirits are occasionally rewarded with the Nobel Prize.

Poets, if they're genuine, must also keep repeating "I don't know." Each poem marks an effort to answer this statement, but as soon as the final period hits the page, the poet begins to hesitate, starts to realize that this particular answer was pure makeshift that's absolutely inadequate to boot. So the poets keep on trying, and sooner or later the consecutive results of their self-dissatisfaction are clipped together with a giant paperclip by literary historians and called their "oeuvre" ...

I sometimes dream of situations that can't possibly come true. I audaciously imagine, for example, that I get a chance to chat with the Ecclesiastes, the author of that moving lament on the vanity of all human endeavors. I would bow very deeply before him, because he is, after all, one of the greatest poets, for me at least. That done, I would grab his hand. "'There's nothing new under the sun': that's what you wrote, Ecclesiastes. But you yourself were born new under the sun. And the poem you created is also new under the sun, since no one wrote it down before you. And all your readers are also new under the sun, since those who lived before you couldn't read your poem. And that cypress that you're sitting under hasn't been growing since the dawn of time. It came into being by way of another cypress similar to yours, but not exactly the same. And Ecclesiastes, I'd also like to ask you what new thing under the sun you're planning to work on now? A further supplement to the thoughts you've already expressed? Or maybe you're tempted to contradict some of them now? In your earlier work you mentioned joy - so what if it's fleeting? So maybe your new-under-the-sun poem will be about joy? Have you taken notes yet, do you have drafts? I doubt you'll say, 'I've written everything down, I've got nothing left to add.' There's no poet in the world who can say this, least of all a great poet like yourself."

The world - whatever we might think when terrified by its vastness and our own impotence, or embittered by its indifference to individual suffering, of people, animals, and perhaps even plants, for why are we so sure that plants feel no pain; whatever we might think of its expanses pierced by the rays of stars surrounded by planets we've just begun to discover, planets already dead? still dead? we just don't know; whatever we might think of this measureless theater to which we've got reserved tickets, but tickets whose lifespan is laughably short, bounded as it is by two arbitrary dates; whatever else we might think of this world - it is astonishing.

But "astonishing" is an epithet concealing a logical trap. We're astonished, after all, by things that deviate from some well-known and universally acknowledged norm, from an obviousness we've grown accustomed to. Now the point is, there is no such obvious world. Our astonishment exists per se and isn't based on comparison with something else.

Granted, in daily speech, where we don't stop to consider every word, we all use phrases like "the ordinary world," "ordinary life," "the ordinary course of events"... But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world.

It looks like poets will always have their work cut out for them.

Translated from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

Sun, 23 Oct 2005 02:58:36 GMT

Helplessness is when you feel so much you think your heart will burst but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out because everything is meaningless. Pain is when you try to see through her eyes and you find only half-formed dreams that died prematurely from poverty and a burden so heavy it broke her dignity and stole her self-worth. Silence is what you find at the end of every sentence you try to write, because no words can ever solidify the indescribable. Hot tears run down your cheeks. The world is heavy but you feel light-headed, and to keep from vomiting you breathe.

Sun, 11 Sep 2005 20:18:07 GMT

I'm in UT St. George right now. I haven't updated for a while, but if anyone wants to contact me, my email is: tinyfeather@gmail.com. If you like receiving actual mail (like me :D) then send me an email and I'll give you my address.

The colour game

Fri, 17 Jun 2005 00:38:02 GMT

Each colour reminds me of someone I know. Take a guess to see if you're in here. Oh, some colours remind me of more than one person. ^ - ^

1. Emerald Green
2. Brick Red - Greg
3. Indigo - Safeen
4. Sienna - Owen
5. Coral - Will
6. Honeydew
7. Chocolate - Safeen
8. Cobalt Blue
9. Khaki - David
10. Tomato - Amanda
11. Orchid
12. Seagreen - Ant
13. Canary Yellow - Teresa
14. Powder Blue
15. Gold
16. Midnight Blue
17. Indian Red - Liisa
18. Plum - Gunjan
19. Seashell white - Katie R
20. China Blue - Tracy
21. Lemon
22. Mint Cream - Tim
23. Ivory
24. Dark Grey
25. Poppy Red
26. Violet - Tammy
27. Absinthe

Why my journal is so messed up

Sun, 05 Jun 2005 04:23:12 GMT

Because I got bored, tried to change it...then decided I was too lazy to finish. The end!!!

:D

WHY WERE YOU SO SLOW???

Mon, 30 May 2005 23:18:35 GMT

I GOT ACCEPTED AT U OF T!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sun, 29 May 2005 04:41:34 GMT

I know I've said this many times before, but the sky is so beautiful! Especially today! It was the most amazing peacock blue. Together, with the wispy whip-cream clouds and the lush green leaves, the entire picture made me wish I was a bird. I wanted to perch up in a tree and enjoy the wind, or fly amongst the clouds. It's amazing how beautiful the world is.

Sat, 14 May 2005 15:53:54 GMT

Lately, I've been slowly coming to a single conclusion.
After four years, countless emotional ups and downs, I've realize--none of this really matters.
This is not a statement of apathy. I am not declaring to anyone in particular that I do not care about them. Nor should this be taken as an attack, a devaluing of our collective past. I have simply become fully aware of that fact that there are very few things in life I can call truly important. That there are few incidents worth holding grudges over. When all is said and done, I really don't care about the things we've done to hurt each other. To err is human; I've stopped carrying these emotional baggages. I now know what is essential for me. More significantly, I now know who is essential to me. I think this realization is one of the few truths we can ever fully comprehend in this life.
We only have a short amount of time on this earth. I regret every moment I've ever wasted hating/disliking someone when I could have been smiling at the good things, the good people I'm lucky enough to have. In all seriousness, stop wasting time. Life is so unpredictable. Don't find yourself in remorse for things you should have done or the things you should have said. Don't waste time taking those chances. Because you know what happens when you don't do anything about it? Nothing. Nothing happens, and you're left with another "what if". Life is too short for these 'maybes', and tomorrow might never come (yup, I realize how ominous this whole entry sounds). Take the time NOW to say what you want to say.
Think about it, and act. There is no more time to waste. The clock is ticking.

Sun, 24 Apr 2005 15:18:51 GMT

Today I woke up as if I never went to sleep. I feel rested, yet, a lingering clarity was here to greet me as I opened my eyes. I feel safe today.

Fractured Thoughts

Thu, 21 Apr 2005 04:29:34 GMT

I don't see a lot of my old friends these days, and yet at the same time, I'm closer to some of them than I have ever been.

When I sit amidst of my peers, most of the time, I feel out of place. It's like there's somewhere else I should be, or maybe it's just that idea of a tighter community I miss.

I've come to terms with my own inability to socialize. I simply find it near impossible to talk to people to make small-talk with people I don't know very well...it's so uncomfortable. I somehow feel insincere. (That, and most of the time, I find it hard to care for people and their activities right from the beginning of an acquaintance. Thus it's hard to act like I do.)

On the other hand, I'm so cool with certain people...cooooool~

But those people are few and far between :D ..Wait...wrong emoticon :(

I guess I just need to be very relaxed...

Hmm. I don't feel like doing anything in particular right now, although, I feel restless.

There is one thing I'd like to do: scream at the top of my lungs!!!!!!!!!

DEEP BREATHING.

This entry doesn't make much sense, hmm, I guess that says a lot about my thought process.

:P

I want to lie on a couch in a completely dark room with a friend and talk about anything that comes up again. Ask me anything in a dark room and I'm likely to answer it, especially if it's 3 a.m.

Alright, I'm too distracted by this song to write anymore...

End of thoughts.

Mon, 11 Apr 2005 01:27:26 GMT

every time i read the little prince it breaks my heart.

Mon, 04 Apr 2005 00:41:21 GMT

Dance the night away by karchan85
Name
What you Look like
The Music	Jazz

Quiz created with MemeGen!

Sun, 03 Apr 2005 00:46:06 GMT

yesterday, before going to the dance, i opened my email account to find a letter from my German partner, Miri. i almost cried. i miss my German family so much. even though everything was so different there, i loved everything about that country. everyday when i woke up and looked out the giant windows of Miri's room towards the vast stretch of dark blue sky, when i stepped out of her wooden house and heard the bell of the church, when i felt the mist on my face, i wanted to hug the world. i miss my intelligent Matthew and his attempts to steal "der Hund;" i miss Mirion and her arguing with Matti, and i miss Jurgon and his strange sense of humour. i miss my German grandmother who spent the night knitting me a scarf. i miss Tanya and her Felix and i miss Anki. i miss Miri, i miss laughing with through the night about how Julianna looks like a pig (sorry Katie). i miss that park by the Gymnasium and the weird squirral that sounded like a pigeon... i miss biking across three villages to the tower of Bismark for a picnic only to find it locked. i miss that amputated lego-man we found on the ground. i miss yelling, "GHET!!! GHET!!!" to a little frog at midnight while a car approaches the tiny green spot in the middle of the road. i miss sleeping in the sunlight on a spring afternoon. i miss playing that impossible, never-ending German card game. i miss standing in the middle of the town square in Bremen listening to the bells of the cathedral while trying to catch the faint sounds of choirboys singing. i miss feeling completely at peace inside the stoney church and being offered by a complete stranger to light a candle for her dead loved ones.

i miss finding a new side of myself everyday.

i miss seeing impossibly beautiful skies.

i miss getting lost for two hours and hiking across the Harz mountain while it rained.

i miss Germany.

Wed, 23 Mar 2005 17:13:01 GMT

yesterday was officially the shittiest night i've had in a very long while. why? well, what else can it be? allergies, of course. yup, my only consistently present friend. it always comes back, even when i've done everything in my power to make sure it doesn't. it tortured me ALL NIGHT with hives. For those of you who hav the good fortune of not knowing what hives feel like, it is somewhat similar to having misquito bites that spread all over your body when you scartch them. i'm not talking about spreading a little...like a few centimeters...no, i'm referring to an all-consuming attack on all surfaces of skin on one's body (think roman empire and its conquest on the ancient world). fortunately, the army of hives did not find their way to my face, so i was able to come to school and continue to slave away under the tyranny of my teachers. yay!

***
now for somthing less disgusting. a clip from yesterday!

the time: third period lunch
the place: the cafe

Annie: *crunch crunch crunch* mmm...
Dat: what are you eating?
Annie: cucumbers! *bites* look! now it looks like a smile!
Dat: *sigh* no it doesn't, you bit into it, it's not a smile.
Annie: yes it is, it's a smile. *bites another slice* and now i've made a hat...a TOP HAT!
Dat: ...what is that? you can't just bite into a slice of cucumber and call it a hat, that's not art!
Annie: it's a top hat, and you need to open your imagination a little more. *bites bites bites* *gasp!* oh!!! i know!!! *arranges cucumbers to resemble a creature, with top hat on top* THE CAT IN THE HAT!
Dat: what...what is WRONG with you?! *disbelief* you can't just tell me to IMAGINE a cucumber is a hat because you're too INCOMPETANT as an artist!
Annie: ...it's the cat in the hat...look!
Dat: how can you tell it's a cat?!
Annie: by the whiskers.
Dat: what whiskers? the cucumber seeds?
Annie: *smile* *crunch*
Dat: oh MY G...forget it.
Annie: *smiles* *crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch* what a cool cat. :)

***

woo hoo! my hives are clearing up! my hands almost look normal now! however, my voice has gotten worse. oh well, i'd rather have a crappy voice rather than nasty bumps on my skin.

;)

Mon, 21 Mar 2005 22:13:35 GMT

i want to go travelling. there's something amazing about being on the open road, you feel as if you're returned to a state of constant awareness often only found in childhood. i was sitting in studies in lit today, and the desire to be on a bike, heading towards an open sky was so strong, i actually looked up and hoped to see clouds instead of our dingy ceiling :(

i have however, begun something far more practical towards this plan (other than staring up at the ceiling, i'm a multi-tasking gal)--i have begun saving money to form a "travel around the world ghetto-style" fund :D

contributions are welcome, as are suggestions on locations (europe is a must, but i'm trying to narrow it down a bit more), this will probably, hopefully happen in the summer of first-year uni.

yay! travelling!

!!!

See you in the real world.

Tue, 27 Jul 2004 05:51:39 GMT

This little community of ours has helped me a lot this year. It was exceedingly convenient to be able to just vent online anytime I wanted, but I'm ready to stop relying on this for support. This way I'll lose touch with some of you, but I think it's for the best overall in the long run. I hope I don't have to tell you that you can still contact me outside this thing. Actually, I'm looking foward to it, whether you're on my "friends" list or not.

Look at the sky more often, hold onto the ones you care for, and remember that we all exist outside this window.

-Annie