Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
You are the Colored eye. You are different and dont
give a dam wut other people think or say about
you.. your independent n sexy. Good for u!
The type of pain ur eyes behold
brought to you by Quizilla
Sunday, December 28, 2003
Saturday, December 27, 2003
"Flight"
By Judy Budnitz
There was a time when the women jumped off buildings regularly. They wore hoopskirts then and carried parasols. They fell gently, their skirts filling with air, their legs dangling in long lace knickers. Men were gentlemen then; they did not look up and snigger when a lady fell.
Now the women wear blue jeans and spandex. They have sleek haircuts. They slip too fast through the air; you can't get a grip on them. No place to fall to -- there are too many busy streets, too many antennas and telephone wires read to slice off a finer or snag on an earring. Now when a woman jumps, everybody looks. THey have no manners.
It makes Kanisa sad sometimes.
Kanisa took the leap the first time when she was five. SHe jumped from the front step. Her sandals made a wop sound when they landed, and she rocked forward on her hands. That was all.
Now she is so much older and so much heavier, she nees to jump off higher things. Thirty stories at least, she thinks, to get any feeling of flight.
She thinks about it often.
In the time before, women had reason to jump. An incriminating letter, a misplaced glove and your life could change forever. They jumped with necks outstretched, swanlike, tears in their eyes and the sun sliding a burning path down the sky. Gauzy scarves trailed after them, and impassioned speeches, and perhaps a lazy handkerchief fluttering down late, like the last leaf off the tree in autumn.
Now women like to get where they are going as fast as they can. No time for a journey. It must be done as soon as they think of it. That's the way Kanisa's mother did it. SHe took the leap headfirst on a cloudy day in the middle of rush hour, didn't bother to wait for the dramatic sunset. Her mother splattered neatly next to the curb. It was street cleaning day: lucky coincidence.
And then her aunt, who was in such a hurry that she leapt before even she was ready, and had to finish her coffee and pull up her panty hose midflight. Not that it mattered; no one had time to look up.
Back then the woman leapt off cliffs. It was a beautiful thing. Songs and poems were written about them. People wept for them. Lovers leapt after them. They fell neatly into rivers that carried them along and away to the sea, to the dark, dark deep, where the permaids braided their hair and sung them to sleep.
Now it is the police report, the juicy mess, the spot on the evening news. The bums check the street for loose change and the landlord looks for another tenant.
Kanisa stands at the window in their apartment on the seventeenth floor. Not high enough. It must be the thirtieth floor at least. There is a gull from off the bay perching on the building opposite. He shrieks for company. Behind her the baby screams for a fallen toy.
What if someone tipped the high chair, she thinks, and the baby spills out and thunks his tender head on the floor and doesn't move? What then? Why, then she will burst through the window, like a tropical fish bursting through the glass of the aquarium with a crash and splash, gasping and flapping its fins like it might fly.
But the baby's still in the chair, sucking his finfers. The gull flies away. A tropical fish, if it's lucky will be scooped into a saucepan of tap water while someone sweeps up the peices of broken glass and sops up the mess.
Kanisa trips over the baby's fallen toy. It's a woman, hard and smooth and egg-shaped, and wieghed on the bottom so she always rolls upright. Her body clings to earth like a magnet.
Dennis said once that most people who jump have heart attakcs and die before they even reach the ground. "it's not fear of falling." he said; "it's landing they're afraid of." He said that and laughed, his teeth caulked with mashed potatoes. Soon after, he left for good.
What did he know about it anyway? He was a trucker, accustomed to moving in horizontals, not verticals, she thinks as she takes the elevator.
Now Kanisa stands on the roof of her building. The iron railing comes only to her waist. She leans way out. SOmeone could tip her over. SHe looks out across the stunted forest of chinmeny and TV antennas. She looks down into the hot wind barreling up from the street. The wind carries with it the smells of subway and pretzel stands and a small, thin wailing -- her baby wants his toy. The yellow cabs slide past one another on the street like peices on a fame board.
Long ago, Kanisa thinks, the villians were easy to pick out. They wore black clothes, cape, and gloves, and had pencil thinn mustaches. They carried swords and made women swoon. These days they are much harder to spot.
She thinks, The terror of falling is not the eath rushing up, smiling and effusive, to embrace you like an old friend you had hoped never to see again. Nor is it the fear of impact, the teeth-rattling jolt, like the violent thrust you close your eyes and brace yourself for in the night.
It is the sense of betrayal, as you arch earthward like a shooting star and look down to see no one there waiting to catch you.
By Judy Budnitz
There was a time when the women jumped off buildings regularly. They wore hoopskirts then and carried parasols. They fell gently, their skirts filling with air, their legs dangling in long lace knickers. Men were gentlemen then; they did not look up and snigger when a lady fell.
Now the women wear blue jeans and spandex. They have sleek haircuts. They slip too fast through the air; you can't get a grip on them. No place to fall to -- there are too many busy streets, too many antennas and telephone wires read to slice off a finer or snag on an earring. Now when a woman jumps, everybody looks. THey have no manners.
It makes Kanisa sad sometimes.
Kanisa took the leap the first time when she was five. SHe jumped from the front step. Her sandals made a wop sound when they landed, and she rocked forward on her hands. That was all.
Now she is so much older and so much heavier, she nees to jump off higher things. Thirty stories at least, she thinks, to get any feeling of flight.
She thinks about it often.
In the time before, women had reason to jump. An incriminating letter, a misplaced glove and your life could change forever. They jumped with necks outstretched, swanlike, tears in their eyes and the sun sliding a burning path down the sky. Gauzy scarves trailed after them, and impassioned speeches, and perhaps a lazy handkerchief fluttering down late, like the last leaf off the tree in autumn.
Now women like to get where they are going as fast as they can. No time for a journey. It must be done as soon as they think of it. That's the way Kanisa's mother did it. SHe took the leap headfirst on a cloudy day in the middle of rush hour, didn't bother to wait for the dramatic sunset. Her mother splattered neatly next to the curb. It was street cleaning day: lucky coincidence.
And then her aunt, who was in such a hurry that she leapt before even she was ready, and had to finish her coffee and pull up her panty hose midflight. Not that it mattered; no one had time to look up.
Back then the woman leapt off cliffs. It was a beautiful thing. Songs and poems were written about them. People wept for them. Lovers leapt after them. They fell neatly into rivers that carried them along and away to the sea, to the dark, dark deep, where the permaids braided their hair and sung them to sleep.
Now it is the police report, the juicy mess, the spot on the evening news. The bums check the street for loose change and the landlord looks for another tenant.
Kanisa stands at the window in their apartment on the seventeenth floor. Not high enough. It must be the thirtieth floor at least. There is a gull from off the bay perching on the building opposite. He shrieks for company. Behind her the baby screams for a fallen toy.
What if someone tipped the high chair, she thinks, and the baby spills out and thunks his tender head on the floor and doesn't move? What then? Why, then she will burst through the window, like a tropical fish bursting through the glass of the aquarium with a crash and splash, gasping and flapping its fins like it might fly.
But the baby's still in the chair, sucking his finfers. The gull flies away. A tropical fish, if it's lucky will be scooped into a saucepan of tap water while someone sweeps up the peices of broken glass and sops up the mess.
Kanisa trips over the baby's fallen toy. It's a woman, hard and smooth and egg-shaped, and wieghed on the bottom so she always rolls upright. Her body clings to earth like a magnet.
Dennis said once that most people who jump have heart attakcs and die before they even reach the ground. "it's not fear of falling." he said; "it's landing they're afraid of." He said that and laughed, his teeth caulked with mashed potatoes. Soon after, he left for good.
What did he know about it anyway? He was a trucker, accustomed to moving in horizontals, not verticals, she thinks as she takes the elevator.
Now Kanisa stands on the roof of her building. The iron railing comes only to her waist. She leans way out. SOmeone could tip her over. SHe looks out across the stunted forest of chinmeny and TV antennas. She looks down into the hot wind barreling up from the street. The wind carries with it the smells of subway and pretzel stands and a small, thin wailing -- her baby wants his toy. The yellow cabs slide past one another on the street like peices on a fame board.
Long ago, Kanisa thinks, the villians were easy to pick out. They wore black clothes, cape, and gloves, and had pencil thinn mustaches. They carried swords and made women swoon. These days they are much harder to spot.
She thinks, The terror of falling is not the eath rushing up, smiling and effusive, to embrace you like an old friend you had hoped never to see again. Nor is it the fear of impact, the teeth-rattling jolt, like the violent thrust you close your eyes and brace yourself for in the night.
It is the sense of betrayal, as you arch earthward like a shooting star and look down to see no one there waiting to catch you.
Friday, December 26, 2003
I can't deal with the thought of you leaving and so i'll sit here pretending you'll be one room over forever. I'll hide my tears, refuse to say goodbye because you aren't leaving, and avoid you until it's too late.
Big girls don't cry
and they don't need bigger sisters.
but...
who's going to love me when you're gone? Who's going to care?
Without you I'm all alone. Please don't abandon me now.
Big girls don't cry
and they don't need bigger sisters.
but...
who's going to love me when you're gone? Who's going to care?
Without you I'm all alone. Please don't abandon me now.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Monday, December 22, 2003
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Friday, December 19, 2003
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Monday, December 15, 2003
Sometimes i see pictures of you and realize that you're not ugly in person because the pull is there. Because you're perfectly applied makeup hides it all. but really, there's nothign fascinating to you. nothign beautiful. and i know you're insides are just as ugly. just as plain. just as big and bland and colorless. I know you've no pretty pictures inside, no brightened dreams, no real cuts or bruises to call your own. i know that you're nothing.
and then you shot those arrows aimed at my heart and i spread my arms to give you easy access and i let you bleed me dry. But, i hope you know, that right now, i know your word means nothing. Because all you are is practicality that has never felt. You are fear that hasn't been inspired. You are a coward and all you can do is comment and never act.
Know this, i see you, with all your flashsmilecolor gone and who you really are and i know how ugly you can be.
and then you shot those arrows aimed at my heart and i spread my arms to give you easy access and i let you bleed me dry. But, i hope you know, that right now, i know your word means nothing. Because all you are is practicality that has never felt. You are fear that hasn't been inspired. You are a coward and all you can do is comment and never act.
Know this, i see you, with all your flashsmilecolor gone and who you really are and i know how ugly you can be.
Sunday, December 14, 2003
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Read on for the peice i wrote for fray. i never went. and now reading back it's rather poorly written. that and uber cheesy. i apologize for any offensively bad things and the dissapointment you wil probably feel for me after finishing this...
either way, i have a short story i want to type up and post. not by me. but something i read and enjoyed? so... that to come. plus random one line thoughts for yours truly because that's all i've got nowadays. yes, that *is* how deep i reach, one line. that's it. end of story.
either way, i have a short story i want to type up and post. not by me. but something i read and enjoyed? so... that to come. plus random one line thoughts for yours truly because that's all i've got nowadays. yes, that *is* how deep i reach, one line. that's it. end of story.
Everyone’s got their own romance stories. Everyone’s got first kisses, first loves, first heartbreaks and all the ones following. There’s the one that got away, the one that stole your heart, and the one you count as the biggest mistake of your LIFE. I’m young. I’ve still got a few to find… But sometimes when the world is only 17 years new the littlest things seem like the world and you can’t help but cling on to something because really now… it IS your world. But ask anyone… High school love is a joke. It’s like biting a plastic apple or walking into a glass door or choking on your own spit or… or… or losing your first tooth and the fascination it brings… like getting to the top of a tree for the first time, getting your license, moving to a new city, or maybe… maybe and just maybe… it’s a drop. A leap. A half jumphope that things will turn out ok. Now, my story? It wasn’t love. But sometimes I think it might have been. And I’d tell you how it all began but I really don’t remember. Apparently it was at the changing of the guards. London, this past summer. I remember the heat and I remember the goofy pictures. I remember the tourguide that held the stick that *he* talked about. But I don’t remember him… I remember the moments that matter. The way he told me I was beautiful while he looked me in the eye and for the first time in my life it didn’t feel like a lie. I remember most everything… dear god I remember…
I remember bus rides and lollipops and open windows and night skies and the Eiffel tower… Do you think *he* remembers the Eiffel tower? He was so confused. So oblivious. It was almost cute. The way I placed my arm against his chest, the way I pushed him against that wall, the way I kissed him as passionately as I knew how to kiss. We made eye contact for a moment, for half a moment, for a second, for barely a second. It was like fire. It was like hell. It was like being thrown into the pool at 7 to learn how to swim and the stingburn of taking half a breath underwater. A whisper, “sorry… I just figured it was my last chance to kiss someone on the Eiffel tower…” and I walked away. I walked away from half moment passion and half moment fire. I wonder if he remembers that…
Most present in my mind is that collapse. That feeling when I realized that yes, I DID have feelings for him. That maybe he COULD be something special. My head rested in his lap and the sun streamed in through windows. It was warm and I was half asleep. He looked down and smiled at me. I smiled back. And at that moment something inside me clicked. Something inside me fell. It was like my heart stopped and the world stopped and everything was crashing down. All the walls and fortresses built smashed down. It was like a breaking inside. And with that… I knew he’d gotten through. I knew that I’d never forget his smile or his eyes or that eyebrow ring that still hurt it was so newly pierced.
There are so many memories there, so many little things that made it all worth it. So much sweetness and tenderness, the kind that you lose after your first betrayal and never gain again. He had it. I was angry at the world and wanted nothing to do with trust or attachment or any of the emotions that come right before love… Thinking back now… If I’d been given a couple more days with him it probably would have been love… Maybe it was love… Maybe love was that night in Amsterdam when he refused to go out with his friends because if he spent the night with me it’d be more meaningful. Maybe love was trusting him enough to fall asleep in his arms with European winds blowing over us. Maybe it was when we tried to pull each other as close as possible and even when every last one of our body parts were held against each other it wasn’t close enough. Maybe that was love…
But it wasn’t, couldn’t have been. No, it wasn’t love. It was teen lust at its best. Hormones running wild with the chemicals in our overactive brains. It was a simple list of events… Like the notes thrown down from my window while he sat outside legally sipping beer. Like when he held my hands to warm them or the way he had the most sincere eyes I’ve ever seen. Like when we kissed and I couldn’t stop smiling or when we drank and couldn’t stop me from giggling… Yes… Just a simple list of events. Just a collection of meaningless happenings. It wasn’t love…
It was really early the day we all had to go home. We stood hugging in front of that elevator for what I wish had been forever. But all things have to end. And so I pulled away and he walked away and an hour later at the airport trying to muster “goodbye” was one of the hardest things I’ve ever been forced to do… I kissed him on the cheek and told him to drink and smoke less and I let him hold me. HOLD me. Hold me as tight as he could until the very second we had to go. Pennsylvania is an awful long way from California. Philadelphia to San Francisco. Long distance things don’t work and we knew going in that 10 days later it would have to be over. So I walked away and he pulled me back and I didn’t want him to ever let me go. But like I said, he had to…
To kill a mockingbird is rated third in most inspiring books right after the bible and the book of Mormon. Well, in that book Scout learned that courage is fighting a fight you know you’ll lose and fighting it anyways. But I’ll tell you one thing… Love is a fight you fight knowing you’ll lose but it’s not out of courage. No, not courage. It’s done out of stupidity and blinding hope. Out of want and yearning. Out of loneliness and need.
Now, I didn’t *LOVE* that 18 year old from the east coast. People my age don’t know how to love let alone what love really is… But we threw caution to the wind, and jumped in head first with the knowledge of the goodbye to come. It wasn’t love but I can easily say…. That I’ll never forget him. That when I’m old and gray and have a million baby grandchildren they’ll see the young girl I once was sparkle in my eye when I talk about my first summer romance. that I will be forever grateful to that one Kevin from Pennsylvania that showed me that I didn’t have to be angry at love, showed me how to just “go with it” and for giving me the greatest ten days of my life. For giving me that half moment passion.
I remember bus rides and lollipops and open windows and night skies and the Eiffel tower… Do you think *he* remembers the Eiffel tower? He was so confused. So oblivious. It was almost cute. The way I placed my arm against his chest, the way I pushed him against that wall, the way I kissed him as passionately as I knew how to kiss. We made eye contact for a moment, for half a moment, for a second, for barely a second. It was like fire. It was like hell. It was like being thrown into the pool at 7 to learn how to swim and the stingburn of taking half a breath underwater. A whisper, “sorry… I just figured it was my last chance to kiss someone on the Eiffel tower…” and I walked away. I walked away from half moment passion and half moment fire. I wonder if he remembers that…
Most present in my mind is that collapse. That feeling when I realized that yes, I DID have feelings for him. That maybe he COULD be something special. My head rested in his lap and the sun streamed in through windows. It was warm and I was half asleep. He looked down and smiled at me. I smiled back. And at that moment something inside me clicked. Something inside me fell. It was like my heart stopped and the world stopped and everything was crashing down. All the walls and fortresses built smashed down. It was like a breaking inside. And with that… I knew he’d gotten through. I knew that I’d never forget his smile or his eyes or that eyebrow ring that still hurt it was so newly pierced.
There are so many memories there, so many little things that made it all worth it. So much sweetness and tenderness, the kind that you lose after your first betrayal and never gain again. He had it. I was angry at the world and wanted nothing to do with trust or attachment or any of the emotions that come right before love… Thinking back now… If I’d been given a couple more days with him it probably would have been love… Maybe it was love… Maybe love was that night in Amsterdam when he refused to go out with his friends because if he spent the night with me it’d be more meaningful. Maybe love was trusting him enough to fall asleep in his arms with European winds blowing over us. Maybe it was when we tried to pull each other as close as possible and even when every last one of our body parts were held against each other it wasn’t close enough. Maybe that was love…
But it wasn’t, couldn’t have been. No, it wasn’t love. It was teen lust at its best. Hormones running wild with the chemicals in our overactive brains. It was a simple list of events… Like the notes thrown down from my window while he sat outside legally sipping beer. Like when he held my hands to warm them or the way he had the most sincere eyes I’ve ever seen. Like when we kissed and I couldn’t stop smiling or when we drank and couldn’t stop me from giggling… Yes… Just a simple list of events. Just a collection of meaningless happenings. It wasn’t love…
It was really early the day we all had to go home. We stood hugging in front of that elevator for what I wish had been forever. But all things have to end. And so I pulled away and he walked away and an hour later at the airport trying to muster “goodbye” was one of the hardest things I’ve ever been forced to do… I kissed him on the cheek and told him to drink and smoke less and I let him hold me. HOLD me. Hold me as tight as he could until the very second we had to go. Pennsylvania is an awful long way from California. Philadelphia to San Francisco. Long distance things don’t work and we knew going in that 10 days later it would have to be over. So I walked away and he pulled me back and I didn’t want him to ever let me go. But like I said, he had to…
To kill a mockingbird is rated third in most inspiring books right after the bible and the book of Mormon. Well, in that book Scout learned that courage is fighting a fight you know you’ll lose and fighting it anyways. But I’ll tell you one thing… Love is a fight you fight knowing you’ll lose but it’s not out of courage. No, not courage. It’s done out of stupidity and blinding hope. Out of want and yearning. Out of loneliness and need.
Now, I didn’t *LOVE* that 18 year old from the east coast. People my age don’t know how to love let alone what love really is… But we threw caution to the wind, and jumped in head first with the knowledge of the goodbye to come. It wasn’t love but I can easily say…. That I’ll never forget him. That when I’m old and gray and have a million baby grandchildren they’ll see the young girl I once was sparkle in my eye when I talk about my first summer romance. that I will be forever grateful to that one Kevin from Pennsylvania that showed me that I didn’t have to be angry at love, showed me how to just “go with it” and for giving me the greatest ten days of my life. For giving me that half moment passion.
And yet.. through it all.. i can't help but remember the way it felt to kiss you. remember the sun in my eyes and the break in my heart. I wish i didn't remember you.
Now, if only you could just remember me...
Remember the things you once told me you loved...
... Could our Summer Love ever rival winter?....
Now, if only you could just remember me...
Remember the things you once told me you loved...
... Could our Summer Love ever rival winter?....
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Sunday, December 07, 2003
I wish there were a little switch in my brain So i could turn all of this off inside of me. So i could take the time to sort all the cluttered memories out. Replace all those hard things with happy memories and gently brush away the tiny cracks, the tiny hurts, the tiny scars...
A switch to turn all the pain off... to forget the way this feels...
A switch to turn all the pain off... to forget the way this feels...
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Symptoms:
1) cold sweat. you know.. shivering and sweating at once
2) Fever. apparently it was raging. it felt like my body was on fire. went down after taking a fever reducer?
3) nose issues. sneezing, sniffling, running...
4) sharp ear pain. Maybe an ear infection. or maybe i'm just a hypochondriac.
5) headaches. the kind where you're convinced your head is gonna 'splode
6) naseousness/dizziness
7) tiredness.
maybe i'll go to school tomorrow? mabye i won't? i dunno... we'll see how i feel tomorrow morning...
1) cold sweat. you know.. shivering and sweating at once
2) Fever. apparently it was raging. it felt like my body was on fire. went down after taking a fever reducer?
3) nose issues. sneezing, sniffling, running...
4) sharp ear pain. Maybe an ear infection. or maybe i'm just a hypochondriac.
5) headaches. the kind where you're convinced your head is gonna 'splode
6) naseousness/dizziness
7) tiredness.
maybe i'll go to school tomorrow? mabye i won't? i dunno... we'll see how i feel tomorrow morning...
