the habit of being

-I feel as if the world is angry at me for taking up too much space. I long to be as small as my own worth. This week is at a standstill. Two more days, yet this month will never end. I am guilty of only sitting, only breathing, only sleeping. It’s all so minute, yet I feel sickeningly massive.

-I’d planned to make money doing henna tattoos. I was so excited. I’d discovered the perfect afterschool job. I even ordered the henna and a book of traditional Mehndi designs. I ran across the book today while I was attempting to bring some order to the anarchist society inhabiting my bookshelf. So pretty. The henna powder is still in a box around here somewhere. I never follow through. Also while organizing the books I found the copy of On the Road my sister gave me for Christmas. I should read that.

-You asked if you were boring me lately. No, it has nothing to do with you. I’m just bored in general. The rain falling outside is not adequate. I’m waiting for an awakening, something to wipe the steam from my windows. I yearn for new eyes.

-As I lay there in the empty tub I thought of the pictures I could take. I want to capture uncontrolled emotion, and it’s the only way I can think of. Beads of water drip down the walls. The red light blanket. Different breathing. It’s all too sacred for me. And I know I am too yellow to bring a camera into that pink unfocused world.

-Both the pieces I submitted to my school’s art competition won first place in their respective categories (photography and painting). I think I’ll get $60. Maybe it’s only $50. I know I should be very excited about all this.

. . .

old email from GHP to take up space :

June 27, 1999
I got soaked yet again today. This time when I was walking back to Langdale from the concert. It rains almost constantly here.
The clock on the computer I’m using (#4) says it’s now 12:14 AM. I think it’s really around 7, but there’s no telling really.
I’m reading Microserfs, The Tao of Pooh, and The Wives of Henry VIII all at the same time.
The concert went relatively smoothy, considering the music was incredibly hard and we only had that one day to practice. It went “relatively smoothy” for me, for the god-like music majors it was extremely easy. Being around really talented people depresses me.
I was a model in drawing class on Friday. The only person in there who can actually draw anything decently had a view of my (insert another non-dorky sounding word for ass here). I was lying down. Being still is harder than I thought. I can’t draw, I really can’t. God, I was the only person in there who admitted to not being a -terrible- artist before we started and I’m eating my words more and more quickly as the class progresses. I can draw people better than I can draw chairs.
There is a much higher percentage of attractive people at GHP than at my school. I feel ugly and fat. I went to an aerobics class one morning at six but I haven’t been able to make myself go again. I only went the first time because Ashley the Photography Queen said she was going and she’d come wake me up if I wanted to go to. I really want her to be my friend, dammit, her and the bassoon guy. Why is it the people who hardly ever speak to me that I become obsessed with? Whine.
The people at the computer next to me are French majors. Darcy just came over here to tell me that she and Jessie and Doni (the people I came over to the library with) are leaving. I need to do laundry sometime soon…
The computer clock now says 12:34. How cosmic. Darcy is really into Tori Amos. I miss my Tori CDs. I miss all my CDs. Melissa (one of my teachers whom I worship) has this -huge- CD collection. Maybe I’ve mentioned this before? She let me play the Cowboy Junkies before class the other day (Friday, I think).
The French majors are looking up Paris astronomy for some reason. I shaved my legs this morning after I woke up at 10:30 (woohoo.. we don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn on Sundays). This is important, really. They were hairy. Hmm. I’m struggling for a topic here. Maybe that’s a sign that I should quit typing and go read one of my books.
I may buy a phone card just so I can call you. Feel important.
I haven’t used Granddaddy’s laptop once since I’ve been here. I haven’t really had any assignments. I had that group presentation for Philosophy. It was on goodness. Martin Buber is just all fucked up. Have you read anything by that guy? That I-It I-Thou stuff? Wacko. Buber’s a goober.

. . .

My mother entered my room yesterday morning, poured my schoolbooks out of their bag and onto the bed. I sat up.
“I’m taking this,” she said.
“Taking it where?” I half-yawned. She leans over me.
“I’m taking Wayne to the beach. I want you to clean up your room and study,” she says in a whisper so as not to ruin my little brother’s surprise.
“Okay.”
A few minutes later I hear Wayne’s voice from another room: “From what’s in the back of the car, it looks like we’re going to a beach.”

When I wake up, two or three hours later, the house is empty. I check my email, take a shower, get dressed. It’s bright outside, and colorful. I think about Italy. Italy is good.

I flop onto my parents’ bed upstairs. The window is open. The colors are coming in. The air smells like Italy. The Graduate has just started on Turner Classic Movies. “Do you want me to seduce you? Is that what you’re trying to say?” I look out the window during the commercials. Happy endings are good.

Back downstairs, I remember I’m supposed to clean my room. I don’t. Matt just came online.
“Have you seen The Graduate?”
“I don’t think so. What’s it about?”
“This guy has an affair with an older woman and then falls in love with her daughter.”
“Doesn’t sound like my kind of movie.”

They came back highly sunburned. Wayne showed me his shells. I miss things like that. Sand and shells are years ago for me. It’s ridiculous how little I allow myself.

. . .

July 9, 1999
Chris says I ‘make some good marks’ so I feel artistic. The last few days in drawing class have been wonderful. I get dirtier than anyone else. I don’t understand this. Everyone else gets maybe a little charcoal on their hands and I get completely -covered-. By the end of class it’s all over my arms and my clothes and my feet and my face and in my hair. I’m a sloppy artist.
Today was my last day of Creative Writing. Sad, sad, sad. I’ll miss Melissa. She’s the coolest person alive.
We played Mortal Kombat in Media Literacy. I won my round even though I’d never played before. I’ve got killer instinct.
I’m allergic to Valdosta. It’s the damn sulfur in the water, I swear. I’m breaking out so horribly.
I wonder what time it is. I don’t think this computer’s clock is right. I don’t really have anything to do until 9, when I have to practice a skit for the coffee house on Saturday.
I gave Melissa some of my freewriting to read.
Marcus has a crush on the dorkiest guy I’ve met at GHP. Jenna still seems to have a crush on me, which is fine because she’s always ready and willing to massage my back. Speaking of which have you read The Media is the Massage? or Microfiction? or any of David Ives’ short plays? oh! and Philip Glass rules. yep. we watched that coolass movie with his music. I don’t have a clue how to spell the title [Koyaanisqatsi] but it was -so- good. I need to watch it over and over. all pictures and music, no words.
Have you read Philip Glass Buys a Loaf of Bread? it’s one of those David Ives thingies. I’m the first woman.
I have charcoal under my nails.

. . .

My necklace broke the other night. The green one Jennifer sent me. The one with the little heart in the back. It was such a sad, sad thing. I was taking it off and it just broke. Beads went all over the bed and onto the floor. It was about 11 at night and I’d woken up after an hour or so of sleep. And I felt so bad because if I’d just not woken up it wouldn’t have happened. Evil. I put all the beads I could gather up the next morning into the little orange bowl Amy gave me.

I attach way too much symbolism to things. The necklace made me feel a bit had. Now it is all torn to bits and pieces and really it should be a tragedy all its own.

. . .

I wish there were something I could do to let you know that yes, you are living. You are alive. ALIVE. It’s unspeakable. It tears me.