| Note to all the girls: we have cars, we're hanging out in neighboring towns this summer (also my mom approved of the roadtrip but we'll have to figure out hotels since we're not 18) Note to Kelly: I kind of like that kid I was supposed to like but it can't work and I've already discussed it with you, no point in putting it here. In my writing forum there is a section called "unsent letters". I don't think i believe in unsent letters. I'm too chicken (afraid to be imposing?) to send some of them though. That's how we end up with this sort of thing. A marching band is playing in the distance. Why? I've almost filled the journal, Amanda would be proud. I wish I could find more people who thought like Amanda and Jack Kerouac (though he thinks a bit too much like Rory, but only a bit) and I wish all those people were male and attractive and madly in love with me. Wishful thinking. I'm so tired of being s urrounded by stupid people, though. I miss my camp, wh ere so many of them were the right kind of people. I'm going to counselor there, when I"m older and need summer money. I figured it out, I need a certain breed of stoner. The half hippie/beatnik, half intellectual breed. Preferably with a small fro or short dreds. I'm propping my sanity up against the belief that good art schools are full of those. They don't actually have to smoke (hell, I don't), its the state of mind that's important. (finnegan begin again) New notebook, new pen...no use copying the rambling about them since it's pointless and you can't see the pen. Pen was dying, pens are a microcosm, we're all dying, using up our ink til we're useless and empty and thrown away. Drawing of a willow tree, flowers, a weird line that kinda looks like a tulip, and a bridge with four people on it. Weeping willows are so sad, I wonder why. All the intellectualism and control we think we have can never outdo or erase the effects of evolution. I tried to explain it to Rory once. "Evolve" he said. "Grow up" says I, "Have some compassion- think for once with your intuition- don't be so cold- you'll see, if she's actually like you, you'll see what you do- maybe you'll understand- but I don't believe that she's like you. The fact that she agrees makes her agreeable, not the same, and you are not agreeable." I wish I could know what it's like to be with her, for you. It's a scary thought, that people exist when you're not around. Even scarier when you know they're not thinking of you, and you're thinking of them. Not necessarily in a romantic way- I think about a lot of people. I wonder who thinks of me. Who thinks of you? That's scary. I feel so sullen but I know that Monday I'll have to put on a show again. All I want is to be sullen and have someone care that I"m that way. Give people credit, those "cries for help" must be a lot of work when all you want to do is slip away. All I want is someone who tries to make me happy, wants me to be happy. Then I would be. I'm trying to want it for myself but it doesn't work that way. The way I see it, happiness is a two person job. Each is happy to make the other happy, because each desperately wants each other to be happy, and besides, if someone desperately wants you to be happy, that makes you happier. I'll continue to try and drag myself out of this stupor long enough to make people happy when I think they deserve it, if I can find a way. I may need some money. Pride is a sin, isn't it? Well I don't have anymore, not like you. I am holier than thou, for once, in one aspect. That makes me proud. DAMMIT! The book (the hyacinth one) wasn't that good but ironically the girl in the last chapter spent the whole time wishing for things and seeing beauty in every speck of everything and wondering about people in paintings (because she was one). None of her wishes came true. Because she never spoke them outloud? Passivity brings you nothing. It talks about the honesty in art. That's why I take pictures. There are some things you can't describe with words but can with a picture. There are pictures I take of what seems like nothing but really it's just something there's no good words for. Writing is better for emotions. I need both. I can't write well enough to capture a picture. Skirts (this one especially) feel nice when they flap around your legs as your walking, or in the breeze. Mexican days are too hot but a lot can be said for the nights. My hair is hot and heavy, it's like wearing a scarf. I bought hairclips the other day but my hair's too thick for them. If you want them, they're yours. They're nice, but I need to get some new ones. There are lovebirds. One is sick and in a different cage alone, unable to snuggle with the others (who call for him and look at him) even though it might make him feel better. It's the "What do you do when the only person who can stop you from crying is the person who made you cry?" principle. I am that lovebird. He makes me sad. I also need to buy some Dr. Scholls. Remember that. I saw beautiful hand painted/carved sandels here but they weren't my size. I'm sad. I just saw the tinyest lizard (and here there was a drawing, about two inches long) like that. I mistook him for a bug, he was so cute, and so fast. The light here (a charming table outside Pancho Villa's tequila shop) are nice, they cause my hands to cast triple red/green/blue shadows. It makes my eyes go funny and I wish I had a camera. |