All my days end too slow
And I wonder where I've left to go
Anyway, there's no such thing as company.
I've discovered all I've got to do.

What is it that gets you through
Another day when I'm not there.
Wish we could be more open,
I don't have time to think of how you are.

All my days end too slow,
And I wonder where I've left to go.
Besides I've got no one but myself to blame,
I discovered all I've got to do is

Run my mouth off

When I dream it's not of you,
Something in your voice that I can't hear
But some company it is,
Because I feel so close when I wake,
And in fifty years no one will care
That I was once there...

All my days end too slow,
And I wonder where I've left to go.
Anyway, there's no such thing as company.
I've discovered all I've got to do

Run my mouth off

Never wanted time for looking back,
For a moment I look down and wander
And of what's to come today,
Girl, I wonder where you are.

All my days end too slow,
And I wonder where I've left to go.
Besides I've got no one but myself to blame.
I discovered all I've got to do is

Run my mouth off

-Run My Mouth by Ra Ra Riot

My life
my scars
my memories
will change
will grow
and yet remain the same

i am
proceeding with caution.

What is there to be said?

I've spent so much time lately thinking and not writing my thoughts down, so that when I'm in a position to write them down I've already forgotten them all.

There's something to this. I have this feeling. But I'm not making myself clear at all.

I don't speak to anyone anymore. Not for more than a few minutes at a time. And when I do, it's as though my mind is starved for the conversation. I talk in bursts, and about silly things. Things that don't matter in the least. I'm sure I look very strange to many people, if not all of them. No one wants to get close to that which they don't understand--unless they hope to crack its secrets, I suppose (and I know I make that pretty easy in some ways and pretty difficult in others). I don't blame them, but to be the focus of that indifference or outright disdain can be painful... Sometimes. Then again, it can also be extremely useful...

Another thing--my own voice sounds strange to me. It's odd. Why do I find it necessary to withdraw so much? Because school is for learning--Not for socialization. There's no time for that in my world right now. I shouldn't even be on here now... I should be painting. But I've grown to despise it. Yes. It's sad. But I think it's my dislike of the subject matter. We're painting shapes basically. Shapes in patterns. I really don't like doing these patterns. I think it's because they remind me of mathematics too much. Math and I simply do not get along. That's the end of that.

I'm not doing well emotionally either. I keep having this feeling that I should be elsewhere. I have to get out of here. I have to go to somewhere that I feel... safe? I suppose. But it's more than that... Things... hurt. I long for things. For people. I keep seeing things I wish were true, reality. There are things I want to do and I feel like everything I'm doing now, while they're a step in the right direction (I think), they feel like they're a step in slow-motion. I feel like leaping right now. But at the same time, I'm terrified. Because if I leap, then I know it's harder to go back if I've made a mistake. But I really want to leap. I don't know why. Nor how. How do I go about leaping? I'm not even sure which direction to leap in! It's all so horribly confusing.

I hate being so confused. I hate feeling so static. I hate being so bogged down with emotion--which clouds my judgment and inevitably ruins my entire life experience. There's so much I would give to have better emotional control. I'm so aware of my emotions that you'd think I'd be better at controlling them, but it's like being aware that there's a wild stallion in your pasture and being unable to break him. You can see him, hear him, smell him, but you can't hop on his back and ride into the sunset because he'll bite and kick the crap out of you if he gets the chance.

...Yeah. Just like that.

I'm really tired. It's 7. I'm pretty sure that I'm undergoing a "flare-up" of the lesser symptoms of Ulcerative Colitis. My body is telling me it needs to rest but I keep pushing it. And it's planning a revolt. I can feel it. My brain is trying to show my body what for, but this body knows it has the upper hand (HAHA, GET IT?). I'm losing sense, I fear...

I think it's time to go take a nap. Or finish researching for Art Appreciation. Or study for the Psych midterm. Or sketch out the plan for my next painting... Ugh. None of them sound like fun ideas.

I want to write... And draw forms. We're studying Michelangelo in Art App lately. I did a paper on him for a class in high school that I'd forgotten about until the other day when we watched a video in Art App about him. I remembered the story of the Pieta and how he chiseled his name into Mary's sash and I remember laughing about it. I don't know if I blame him really though. I'd probably have done the same thing, knowing me. Ah, Pride! It has felled greater a man than I. Not that I'm a man. But I digress.

I think I should go. Time to do something productive with my time... I hope.

Burst from the shell of man
Shatter the mask
A million tiny slivers in my wake.

Slide
Onto all fours
Dirt flies
Breathe in the scent
of Earth
All around.

Prayer
With a glance
Upwards.

Nightmares
Quiet for
The moment.

Eyeshine
Curling tension...

...Release.

I love him, I love him, I love him...

I got his letter today. I wrote one immediately afterward. It took me a while because I rewrote it like... fifty bajillion times... But I got it right and put it away... And now I can't wait to send everything :]

I love him so much. Ahhhhhh.

Okay. I'll stop.

I LOVE HIM :3

Sigh.

It is tonight, the first time since my hellish 5 year battle with IBD, that I was confronted once more with my own mortality. This time it was real in a sense that surgeries and hospital stays could never be. This time, there was absolutely no one else behind the wheel--metaphorically and literally--and I was left to my own choices, my own chosen fate.

As I was turning in the same place I've been turning for about a year or more, my car hit the curb and surfed on the recent water and oils built up by the recent rain on the main highway, and spun out. I don't think I spun very far, but I eventually was heading straight towards the median. Seeing a woman in a black car, much smaller than my own enormous vehicle, give me a sidelong glance of absolute horror, I said inside my head, "I don't want to hit her." Without even consciously doing it, I stepped on the brake, and my car stopped right beside the cement median next to the woman's black car, in the same direction and everything. This was not good. I was now facing the opposite direction as the oncoming traffic. I looked ahead and saw headlights coming straight for me, and I knew they would be coming fast. So, I thought, "I have to get off the road now." And I pushed the gas and turned across two lanes (where the traffic light was--a 4-way traffic light) and made it to the same road I had just turned off of. I found a fairly deserted road next to the McDonald's, turned onto it, and parked at the end of someone's long dirt driveway, which was now just a long trail of red mud.

After I put my car in park, I looked out the windshield. Then, I broke into gut-twisting sobs, and hyperventilated like nobody's business. Just as this started, I called my mother. Somehow, she managed to understand me after much screaming into the phone and sobbing and carrying on. Somehow, she came (with my ill father in tow) and found the road I had turned onto, with only my horrible hysterical self giving directions. I hugged her and my father got in my car, and she followed me as I drove all the way back home.

I have never been so shocked and amazed to be alive. I have never been so grateful to be alive as I am now. I don't think anything I've ever been through can possibly compare to this. I still don't know how I survived, I just remember thinking "Oh shit" and "I don't want to hit her" and "I have to get off the road NOW." And that's all. The music I was playing sort of jolted me awake. I was shocked that it was still playing after I spun out. I think that's part of what helped me remember that I was still alive, that I was in danger, and that I needed to bail FAST.

I also called C just before mom came to pick me up, because she told me to. C and I were supposed to meet at his house before I spun out, and so I called him to tell him what had happened and that I wasn't going to make it tonight. I was still crying and upset when I called him, but I'd calmed down some and I told him that I was fine but that I was just a bit shaken and had to go home and calm down some more. He said he understood, was very nice about it, and told me to just go home and rest. I told him I'd see him tomorrow and hung up. Then, waiting for my mother to come pick me up, I thought I should call someone else to calm myself. I called Jon, but he didn't pick up. So, I just walked around my car a few times as the rain poured down and checked my tires. The car didn't get any damage, and I didn't get any damage. I didn't do any damage to anyone and they didn't damage me. Miracle.

When my mom came I felt a huge wave of relief. Hysteria and relief at the same time. Like BAM. And then it was gone. My mom and dad were so very good to me that I thought I must look terrible for all their attention. Jon called me back later and I broke down a bit even with him. By that time I was still reliving it... I still am, though not nearly as much...

I have never been so glad to be alive. Never.

And omg, the moon never looked so full and perfect and round and bright as tonight!

The first one. It was fresh, it was new, it was big, and it was beautiful. :] Met every expectation I could have had. I was clamoring for more.

This is from Chapter 4 of a book I checked out of the library titled, The Writer's Handbook edited by Sylvia K. Burack. This chapter is one of a hundred in the book, each written by famous persons in the writing field (in 1991). This particular chapter was written by John Jakes, and while this is not the entire chapter, I decided to take the part that got straight to the point.
--

...Certain attitudes underlie all the skills a writer must have. I call those attitudes states of being. During a professional career that spans thirty-seven years, I've thought about these states of being a lot. Added some, subtracted others. Finally distilled and described seven. I believe a writer must "be" all seven, even before taking the first steps toward technical mastery. Indeed, so crucial are these seven states of being, I believe that if you lack them, you will never be a professional, only an eternal novice.

Each of the seven is simple to describe, but profound in its impact on your life. Here they are, then... the seven "states of being" that support a writing career.

1. BE SURE. Do you really want to pay the price? It isn't small. Are you willing to isolate yourself day after day, session after session, year after year, in order to learn your craft the only way you can--by writing?

There are much easier, more pleasant ways to pass the time, though few so rewarding intellectually and spiritually. But it's no sin to be honest and admit it if you'd rather garden, fish, or socialize with friends than go it alone as a writer, with no guarantee of success. If you aren't sure you're up to all that writing demands of a person, go no further.

2. BE DETERMINED. This is a re-statement of one of my "three P's" of a writing career--practice. You must have guessed by now that I believe many parts of the writing process (though not all) can be learned, just as golf can be learned. It's true. You may never be a Fuzzy Zoeller or a Nancy Lopez--there are few out-and-out champions in any field--but with determination and practice, you can probably become at least a part-time professional. To do it, however, you must write and keep on writing, trying to improve all the time.

3. BE PATIENT. This equates with the second of my "three P's," persistence. The writing profession is not, thank God, the record business. Idols are neither born nor made on the strength of a single three-minute album cut. A more substantial body of work is required. Nor do many stars emerge in the writing field at eighteen (only to be forgotten six months later). Except for a very few, a solid writing career usually arrives later in life.

Also, you must remember that publishing, like any other art that is part industry, changes constantly. Editorial people change jobs. A house or publication that rejects you this year may, under a new editor, say yes the next. Failure to realize this can increase your impatience to the danger point... the point at which you say, "What's the use?"

We live in an age of instant gratification. You won't get it writing... except for the joy in the work itself.

4. BE OPEN. This is the last of my "three P's"--professionalism. By being open, I mean being willing and eager to have all the flaws in your work exposed, so that you can fix them. I mean being anxious to have a working partnership with an editor who admires your strengths but won't spare you criticism of your weaknesses.

Don't let the editor do all the work, though. You must want to find the weak places for yourself, before the editor sees them. It is this rather cold-blooded attitude that sets most money-earning writers apart from dabblers and those who would rather talk about being a writer than do what it takes to be one. "No pain, no gain," runners say. It's the same with writing. Unless you're open to tough criticism and willing to do something about it, you'll never go the distance.

5. BE CURIOUS. Read everything you can read. Read widely, not merely in your chosen field of writing. Spend as much time as you can with your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. Don't strive for attention... strive to go unseen in a crowd, on the beach, at a party. Watch people. Watch the sky. Watch a baby's repertoire of expressions. Watch the way sun puts shadow on a wrinkled garment. Nothing should escape your notice. Everything eventually contributes to what you write, even though the way it contributes is totally unknown to anyone, including you.

6. BE SERIOUS. Give unstintingly of yourself when you write. The kind of effort NFL players casually refer to as "110 percent." There's something to it.

Once again, if you dabble... withhold part of your energy... refuse to commit your whole mind and heart to the work... that will be reflected in a lackluster creative product. Give your work the best you have to offer at the moment you do it. Give it a clear head, and a body that's fit and rested.

On the other hand, while you're taking the work seriously, don't take yourself seriously. I abhor the kind of writer who can't laugh at himself... who can't avoid pretentious pronouncements (probably to cover a raging insecurity)... who carries "the gift" like a royal scepter and never stops waving it about for others to see.

Too many writers unwittingly play what I call Immortality Roulette. They get involved in worrying about their own reputations. How will they be remembered in a hundred years? They grow desperate, sometimes almost maniacal about it. They write nasty letters to harsh critics--or at least talk about doing it. They are happy or sad depending on a few words from a total unknown (most reviewers). The result of all this is often compensation in the form of overweening self-importance.

The saddest cases are the most marginal... those very competent popular writers who probably will be largely forgotten, except by a few trivia scholars or aficionados, as time goes by. Since most of us can't answer questions about posterity--a Hemingway, acknowledged a genius in his own lifetime, is a rarity--just do the best you can. No one can ask more, and what more can you logically ask of yourself? Posterity will take care of itself, with or without you.

7. BE YOURSELF. Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish. I don't mean preach. Just be natural. The originality and power of Tolstoy's War and Peace do not lie in the fact that he was the first to write a mammoth novel about Imperial Russia facing Napoleon. I don't know whether he was first or not. I suspect so; it doesn't matter. What matters is that he was unique, a singular person, and his great novel emerged from what he had to say about his homeland and its people in wartime. One of my favorite statements about writing, encountered so long ago I can't even acknowledge the source, is this:

"True originality lies not in saying what has never been said, but in saying what you have to say."

So there you are. Seven "states of being" you must achieve before you start your work in order to master the specific tools of your craft. Again, if you honestly feel these requirements are too tough--simply not for you--no one will blame or criticize you. But if you say, "Yes, I will be a writer because I can be all of those things... I am all of those things... or I'm willing to try to become them," then I predict eventual success for you.

Not enormous wealth, mind you. Not a best seller every year. Not immortality--just the solid satisfaction of being a writer. It's a proud and ancient profession... and it's a great feeling to achieve even a little success in the business of entertaining and enlightening millions with your own words. It's a calling very much worth the price.

--

My own take on these seven "states of being" is this--I've a long, long way to go. But I'm with the latter of those three choices--"I'm willing to try to become them."

I'd like, above all, to merge the two great loves of my life--art and writing. How, I don't know. But I would greatly like to try.

When you were young
You were the king of carrot flowers
And how you built a tower tumbling through the trees
In holy rattlesnakes that fell all around your feet

And your mom would stick a fork right into daddy's shoulder
And dad would throw the garbage all across the floor
As we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for

And this is the room
One afternoon I knew I could love you
And from above you how I sank into your soul
Into that secret place where no one dares to go

And your mom would drink until she was no longer speaking
And dad would dream of all the different ways to die
Each one a little more than he could dare to try

I've been listening to this song on repeat all day...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YYOx43j9pRI&feature=fvw

my heart quivers
with the anticipation
and yet this obligation
fills up my tired head

i've been waiting my whole life...

...for the chains to rust...

...and fall off...

soon. so soon.

i'll feel it...

the freedom

and that path will become clear.

somehow.

i want the bright sunlight
i want the warm hope
i want the tingle through my bones
i want Life to grab me
and keep me

hanging on

please please please

let it be worth the risk.

please

Hey, platypus girl, where's your motivation?
What do you think you're doing with your life?
Where's it going, hmm?
Where's the passion?
Where's the desire?
Why have you dropped yourself in the mud?

I miss the girl I used to know...

Where has she gone?
What is this girl that takes her place all about?
Why isn't she running headlong towards her goals?
What are her goals anymore?
Have they changed all that much?
Do you feel comfortable with the old ways?
Do you remember them because they're safe?
Are they really safe anymore?

I miss the certainty of that girl I knew...

Do you think questioning yourself enough will finally bring about an answer?
Are you okay with the hesitation and the fear taking over your life?
Why don't you take chances anymore?
Why aren't you a risk-taker like you used to be a long, long time ago?
Becoming an adult isn't so bad, is it?
Not as long as you hold onto your goals, right?

You're not so bad, but you're not so great either...

Are you done hurting yourself now?
Are you done wallowing?
Are you done being afraid?
Are you done holding to the hope of your "potential"?
Are you done missing out because you tell yourself you know the ending before they even begin?

You're no genius, philosopher, or psychic...

So, why do you act like you must be one just to get by?
Every. Single. Day.
Is mediocrity really that scary?
Is anonymity really that terrible?
Are you afraid that if no one remembers you, you'll fade away?
That all you've done up to now was pointless?
The survival and the bowed-head and the relentless pushing from yourself?
Are you going to ruin your life because of something so asinine, so melodramatically tragic?

Tell yourself you give two shits. Just once. Try it. See what happens.

Maybe you'll surprise me.

I went riding today (yesterday now) and it was great. I rode a big red-roan mare (she looked a bit like this: http://www.mctamaraacres.com/images/unreg_red_roan.jpg ). She was so pretty... I have no idea what her breed was though it had to be some sort of draft... probably a mix. I really liked her, but she was rather slow-moving. The trail guide said they usually put city-slickers and children on her, which I might have taken slight offense to, but at the same time, I haven't been on a horse in at least 3 years. I really didn't have to do much directing with her either. She knew what she was doing and even when I did correct her, she didn't much mind me. I didn't talk to her as much as the other people talked to their horses on the trail... But I was petting and patting her just about the entire time. She was so gentle and calm--a well-rounded horse. Perfect for children. A bunch of stuff came back to me too. I remembered the way to sit, the way to hold the reins... I remembered things I was surprised about. I didn't have to use many of them, but I remembered them at least. Afterward, my mom and I went to my grandma's house and her neighbor was there. They started asking me questions about my ride, how it had gone, and if I remembered anything. I ended up going into a long conversation about riding--the differences in Western and English styles, the way you hold yourself in the saddle. I talked about Posting and the gaits of the horse. I talked about my time in Florida when I rode Western and some English... And then the short time after I moved here, when I took further training in English riding... The times I've been thrown, the times the horse has bolted and I've lost control, and the highest jump I'd ever gone over (about 4 ft I think--I was about 4 ft tall then too). I talked about which gait I enjoy the most (cantering--it feels so smooth!) and I felt like everything about me had brightened just talking about all of it. I love riding--I truly do. It's about as important to me as writing and drawing and reading... All of the things I've never quite been able to bring myself to go without completely. It is an obsession.

Right now, I feel like the rain has come after a long drought... I feel like a cactus holding in as much moisture as it can to wait for the next storm. I was so sure it would be anti-climactic. But, though it was only a walk on the back of a slow children's horse on a trail I've ridden at least four times before, I feel like it was just what I needed. I feel like, for now, my thirst was quenched. I feel better.

I won't give up forever. I can't anyway. It's inside me... This obsession is here to stay. I will never be able to rid myself of this instinctual, spiritual love of horses. I think I'll be stuck in limbo until I get to be close to them again. Which is okay. I've done it before. But I'm glad I have freshened my memory of their scent and their sound and their sight. It's just the same as it has always been... I'm so glad. So very glad.

I got up early (5:40-something) and jogged yesterday. 3 huge labradors at the end of the street chased me, barking and growling horribly. I was pretty sure they were going to attack. I got half-way down the road before they stopped chasing me. Next time, my mother suggested I bring hotdogs with me...

My mom and I went to the old stable I used to ride at once in a while (it's like... an hour or so from my house). I used to sorta be friends with the owners, and they were always very nice to me. They let me ride for free a few times when they heard that we were a bit broke, but we always made up for it in big tips. I'm going back tomorrow to ride for an hour... It'll be the first time in several years... I can't remember if it's 3 or 4 or 5 right now. I'm excited, but I'm also sort of... blah.

I played guitar too... Another first in quite a while. My fingers remember... I know how to place my hands without much effort. Which is nice. I don't seem to do as well with an audience, however.

I'm tired.

roses that grow
without a touch of human interaction
pale gold
and fluttering petals
never fall, never drift
unlike any other before them

i'm missing the days of sunlight
that were warm but not destructive
to my milk-white skin
the flesh burning and peeling up
to reveal raw pink
like a salmon
and now i'm realizing
my skin is the type that doesn't tan
but only burns

i'm pretty sure
the boy i care so deeply about
is going to leave me for good
i don't know if i love him enough
to keep the miles
from inevitably swallowing
our simple relationship
in its entirety
and leaving us both
terribly alone

when he goes
i'll watch
the sun
grow colder
and the roses
wilt.

turmoil.

gawd. i was so sick yesterday. and the day before that. and this morning. but now i'm ok. i mean, i look rough. but i feel pretty good in comparison.

jesus god almighty i thought i was going to die the other day.

seriously.

i haven't been that miserable in a while.

i was doing so well too. i hadn't been sick in so long... for me, anyway.

ugh.

my throat still hurts.

and my teeth feel nasty.

i think i'll go brush them. because ew.

Doc's gone.

I wish I'd gone back.

Could things get worse?

I'm not ready for the Bio Final Exam.

I'll never be ready for it.

I don't think it's possible to be ready for it.

Even if I'd studied it before... Still wouldn't have been ready for it.

I want to give up.

But I can't.

I can't T_T

AWRGH!

One more year here.

Then I'm leaving this place for good (I hope).

I can't wait to leave everything behind and start all over.

I am sick of ties. I am sick of people. I am sick of everything that reminds me of everything--good and bad. I am sick of all of it.

I just want a place--a nook, a cranny, a ledge, a crack, a crevice--just for me. That's all I want. I don't want anything left to remind me of this place and the worst years of my life. I just want to be free. I am sick of this weight. I am sick of living this way. I just want to breathe... And. I. Can't. Breathe. Here.

If I have to stay here much longer, I think I'll suffocate.

phrase your velvet words around
a singular sound
full of vibrancy
that i can't quite touch
a brilliance i crave so much
is it lunacy
to feel this way?
wishing for some new sight or sway
a you to set me in the right direction
give me the right connection
to find me in entirety
a wholeness and a certainty
i long for but may never see...

...college will be the death of me.