Thursday, February 26, 2004
worse than your ass

I have a history of insubordinate behavior. And now I simply refuse to grow up. I refuse, refuse and refuse to. I refuse with the tenacity of a bulldog attached to a chewy, bloody, utterly delectable piece of meat. I am feeling completely, undividedly, thoroughly mutinous. I will be twenTEEN this year. So there!

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Wednesday, February 18, 2004
best policies

It is more difficult to write honestly than to spin a tale. It is difficult for me to place my hand on my chest, know, understand and realize what I feel and then to transform those complex feelings into words. It is more difficult to shape those formless thoughts into strings of cohesive, coherent writing while  upholding the emblem of truth. To feel traverses so many layers of emotions, each multifaceted, each multi-hued, discontinuous yet all intertwined, blended into a smooth paste from which you cannot clearly distinguish the different elements, yet each tantalizing you with a scintillation. To write about this amalgam accurately, creating something you feel explains and captures the exact moment or experience and stepping away from it all, satisfied, takes skill, takes patience, takes dexterity and an instinctual aptitude. All of this ingenuity I do not posses. That is why it is more difficult for me, to write honestly than to spin a tale.

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Saturday, February 07, 2004
mine

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

And the roses were very much embarrassed.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."

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