Valerie

I haven't been using this like I should. And there are all these words and feelings eating away at my insides. They're not evil or angry, they just need some light. They just need some air. I think it's about time I become a regular. My brain is contorted. I keep wringing it and wringing it. I'm trying to make some wine. I want to intoxicate the world with all these things. That would be a nice life.

I go to therapy now. I like it. My first attempt at therapy failed terribly. It made me feel awful without progress. We would just stare at each other. And the only questions he asked were on the surface. He was insistent that everything had risen from facts of my life. From the people I've surrounded myself with. But everything was inside and I knew that. It was completely irrational.

So I went to someone knew. And I was scared. And he shook my hand the first moment we met. (And he shakes my hand every moment we meet again, and every moment we part since.) And the room was so perfect I felt uncomfortable. It had a desk and two tables, an arm chair and a couch that sucked you in, two windows that overlooked the wall of another building and something I can't see.

TBC..

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I think I'll get tumblr.

First off, I am currently on my new 15-inch MacBook Pro. Fancy fancy (; It's nice and shiny. I'm afraid to put stuff on it, but I need to get back on the music scene since Warped Tour is in nine days. I used to breath music. I still do, but it's a little different. I'm not inhaling it anymore. Just small drags.

I'm trying to get back that feeling.

Speaking of past feelings, or rather perceptions. I found the old xanga site that got me all caught up on photography back in '06. (Yes, I've only been a fanatic for three years.) http://photographyisradd.xanga.com/

I like going back to it, so I know the way I used to feel. Lately I feel dead. But "lately" has had the span of an entire year, so I don't know why I should be complaining now.


I have no idea what I'm talking about now. This entry pisses me off. Meh Meh Meh. I need to start taking my writing seriously.

I'd never say it was your time. That some celestial being had decided you were better fit for a place that wasn't right next to me, but I can't deny butterfly wings. Still, I've never been alone. Every memory I've attained holds one true entity, you. After decades of this familiarity I can't comprehend a world without you. But as the world continues to spin, completely denouncing my heart's need for something stable, for a bit of static, I will still hold my every thought of you all the more dear. You've been my warmth, my light, for as long as my existence.


"I think I must have known you in another life
I think our rocking chairs used to rock together
All night"

I'm currently reading A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. I've hit the second page of the introduction and it's a bit unnerving; how unstable existence is.
"Atoms are so numerous and necessary that we easily overlook that they needn't exist at all. There is no law that requires the universe to fill itself with small particles of matter or to produce light and gravity and other physical properties on which our existence hinges."
I'm starting to understand how tiny I am. Not in respect to any others' needs, nor to a collective whole, just in respect to existence. I am a fluke. I am a random collection of atoms. The possibility that I can exist is an anomaly in itself.
This reminder has supplied an epiphany of sorts. You see, I've been avoiding this essay for nearly half a year, because I've been afraid of its repercussions. Not acceptance, not rejection, but your impressions of me. It's my only chance to show you who I am without the restrictions of educational standards. On "paper" I'm nothing special. I'm wearing a thick wrapper of normalcy when my performance is packed into numerical means. This is the transition to my medium.
I'm an outsider. Not an outcast, an outsider. Society has welcomed me with open arms, and I partake physically. But mentally, I've always felt separate. I've been living on a parallel plane for nearly eighteen years. I've been observing the world through the windows of an infinite room. I enjoy nothing more than finding little step ladders to let people into this room. To let them see through my windows. I construct each step myself through different mediums. Through ideas and feelings and images. Through pen and lense. Through ink and emulsion. I try to find paths.
When accompanied by such relentless desires (i.e. "path seeking") logic would suggest a career attuned to said desires. I suppose I'm illogical. I simply do not believe a degree is required to write a story and acquiring one may impair my love for writing. I have no interest in bisecting and trisecting stories until they are contorted into a list of terms in a textbook. A complete loss of aesthetics. Also, I've never felt writing would provide a stable nor infinite career. (As much as I'd like it to.)
This is where your fine establishment drifts into my list of detrimental resources. I need a stable career. Although my future holds no strict plans, I do wish to pursue a profession that allows me to give back to the world. So I ask that you give me permission to attend. To use your facilities to my advantage, to learn from the collective minds whom congregate there, and to spread a little of my own intellect.

I'm greasy and smelly and gross, and I don't mind much. That's a lie. I feel like crap, but that's okay. When I do get around to hygiene it feels less like a chore and more like a blessing. Yes, that's right. I'm dirty because it makes cleanliness feel good. My stomach is filled with dark chocolate because I'm too lazy to make any real food. I'm sure I'll be living off lettuce and raw ramen when I move out of my house. I don't even like dark chocolate. And it's my mother's valentine's day chocolate. So I feel guilty eating it.

I went to bed pretty late last night. Around three. Not too late, but late enough when I've been deprived of my naps this week. I made lots of trips up and down the stairs last night. I think that's the only reason I don't weigh 300 pounds. I eat crap all day and don't exercise but I still maintain the same weight. It's not a great weight, but I should really weigh a lot more. I really need to stop complaining about my metabolism.

I acted out 3-4 videos in my head yesterday, and I actually thought about breaking out the camera, until I remembered I can't find the charger. I tried to turn it on last weekend after Evan said he recorded a video on it and a message popped up. I don't remember the exact words, but I know I thought, "Wow! That's a little demanding." I'm oversensitive even to electronics. My mind immediately obscured the message into something like "Plug me in now, bitch!" Completely misconstrued.

I also wrote a few entries for this baby this morning. They were all relatively intelligent, but reading everything I just typed I feel pretty stupid. I feel like a surface. I guess this is a surface entry. Nothing stemming on brilliance radiating between the lines of this one.

I'm on a Death Note high. Somewhere between trip #5 and #687 anoche, I noticed my mom picked up the Death Note DVDs I rented from the library for Brittany & I to watch. For some reason I found a smile poking around the corners of my mouth. I don't know why I love that anime so much. It's probably because it involves real intellect and highly developed characters. I just find it ingenius.

That and the contributing factors of comic book love spewing from the pages of The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy & Goth Girl could be the source of my immature glee. I can't help feeling the same way a character does when I'm reading a book. I'm hypothesizing that Fanboy's fanboying for [time out, what is his real name, I don't even know.. ah Donnie, it's only printed once in the entire book, okay, time in] So I'm hypothesizing that Fanboy's fanboying for Giant-Size X-Men #1 and other nerdly commodities has been absorbed into my brain, and contorted and morphed and emerged, as Valerie fangirling for Death Note. That sounds pretty legit.

Oh by the way, I finished TAAOFB&GG. [Nice abbreviation.] I finished it right before typing up this monstrosity. And I'm happy with it. Even if I didn't get the mildly pervy ending I was looking for. I don't know why I think reading about 15 year old mildly pervy losers is so entertaining. Part of me is laughing but the other part of my wants to hug them. It makes no sense because real life pervy people creep me out. I don't know. In text it's a little more innocent, maybe because it's all the more honest and I know exactly the extents of their perviness. Wow, now I sound like a 17 year old mildly pervy loser. A 17 year old mildly pervy girl loser. Horrible.

(FYI that "horrible" was en espanol. So it was pronounced "whore, ee, blay!" How the heck do I make an nyay? It's not even called an nyay, it's called an eñe, but how are you supposed to type, I need an eñe without an ñ?! Anyway, there, "en español", problem fixed.)

So I spent the better part of my day pacing my living room. Spewing ideas for videos, photographs, comics, etc etc. No books of course. God forbid I imagine something I can actually create then and there. When I write I'm usually just compacting movies from my head into text. Is that what everyone does?

I've got two mildly connected scenes running through my mind but their sources are remotely less conscious. Both involving a beach. I'm trying to tie them with an idea I had years ago. About meeting a (somewhat) famous musician in a hospital somewhere (somewhat) far from home. (I.E. my grandmother's house.)

But I'm trying to slip away from stereotypical teenage romance novel. That is the last thing I want to create. I just don't have a plot really. They meet. They talk for a while. They meet later back home. And then what? What's their dilemma? I really don't want to create anything dramatic. (I.E. rape, parental divorce, abuse, bullying, utter emo-ocity.) And I don't want it to be a romance either. I kind of want them to have that unprecedented relationship that I want. But that doesn't create concrete plot. I guess his band will just keep getting bigger, and they'll have communication problems.

I like writing stories with guys as main characters better. I don't know why. Some of my dreams are from the perspective of a guy. It's not really as weird as it sounds. One time I was some guy who was having a dilemma getting home from some school something or other. Later there was a part where he was talking to his sister while he was driving down some dirt road. I don't know what season it was but it had that golden sun hue to it.

Which is weird because I really don't know if I dream in color or not. Which makes even less sense, because if I remember the dream how can I not know if it's in color or not? I just don't. And I really don't see from the character's perspective either. I'm not seeing things through their physical perspective but their mental perspective. But at the same time I don't see them either. But I know what they look like? I make no sense at all.

When I go to my grandmother's we usually eat at an Irish Tavern.

It's owned by a couple from New Jersey.

And it is called Flynn's.

And we always talk with the owners,
And they're awfully nice people.

And they tell us not to eat their ice cream
Because it's not awfully good.

And we always talk with their bussers and waiters,
And they're awfully nice people too.

It's usually just my mother, my grandmother, and I.

And I always order creamy potato soup,
And my grandmother always orders fish and chips.

And she always gets a glass of wine.

And she always describes it as "a goblet".

And she always gets a little tipsy.

And after we finish we walk to the beach.

And we wade through the water.

And my mother always makes me hold my grandmother's arm,
So she won't run away with the tide.

And my grandmother talks to me about everything,
In the most philosophical tone.

And she always talks about the connections people feel with the ocean,
Because that's where we all came from.

And there is always a full moon.

And there is always a cool breeze.

And we're always alone.

And it's wonderful.