ok i'm just a little bit annoyed. i just typed in maybe 6 pages worth of stuff, and accidently deleted it. and it was GOOD! arrrgh. and i'm frustrated enough not to write anything else. so hold your horsies and i'll write more here eventually. grr, argh. i had a really sweet experience last night.. and this seems like just the place to talk about it.
there's this old-ish guy who worked at cypress college doing janitorial stuff.. didn't speak much english, but very nice. always smiled at me whenever i saw him, he'd hold the door open for me, that kind of thing. even though he was doing the yuckiest kind of work..he always seemed like he was enjoying it so much. he was so neat to watch.. i mean, there's some people with their fancy ass jobs, who complain and complain.. and he's working the nasty jobs and smiling his head off teh whole time. anyways, he was around a lot. but then they changed food services, and the people who worked, and i hadn't seen him at all this semester. i was kind of worried, i mean, he was nice i didn't want to think he'd been fired or anything. but i saw him again last night, he was emptying garbage bags. when i passed him, i gave him a huge grin and said hi, and he came up to me (this is the sweet part) and said "thank you for smiling at me." i nearly cried. i just thought that was the sweetest thing. "thank you for smiling at me." i was... humbled! anyways, that's my ramble for tonight.
to my father: frustration. this is frustration epitomized. because there are risks, she says you say. but i say to that, risks are in living. there are risks breathing, in being born, in taking a shower, in stepping out of your front door. but we don't shove a baby bird out of it's nest the first day, no, we wait. but i think my wings are strong enough that if i can't fly, at least i can get to a safe landing spot. i think i am ready, but you are holding on. you hold on with that smirk, as if to say that you are stronger, you are bigger, you have more control. to that, i want you to know that if i didn't want to be here, i wouldn't be. you can't hold me unless i let you. i wish you would realize this. you would have zero control except i give that priveledge to you. but now you take it for granted, and i wish that you would release it ever so slightly. because i don't think that i'm asking for that much. i have evaluated all the risks, and determined that i am capable. i'd like you to trust me that far, i'd like you to think that you've trained me that well. believe me, i know that this is hard. but if only you would realize how quickly i could yank the leash from your grip. this isn't a threat, but i want you to know. the windows in my room are so easy to sneak out of. i have friends, i have money, there is a train, i could go anywhere. except i don't. because i love and respect you, but if you don't give me that much back, how can you expect it to continue? this is so frustrating because i don't understand how to make you understand. i try to do what you want, be what you want, but i'm not. we live in two different worlds, and you have to try to see things in the new way, or we will never see anything remotely similiar. just as i try to see things like you do, but you are making it so hard. because you refuse to see past the blinders you put up years ago. and i am not the same little fledgling bird struggling to lift it's head up over the edge of the nest. there are dangers in everything, nobody can escape from that. but imagine what the dangers would be if i disobeyed you and went on my own? they would increase tenfold. and i could do that. but i choose not to, for YOU. now would you grant me that respect also? please? i think i deserve it. love, the daughter that doesn't have to be dutiful but is, roya i'd like to hear a little guitar to offset all of this piano that i have playing. because i'm not really a piano type of girl, i sit and plunk and my back gets sore. i like to curl up around the neck of the guitar and hug it's body to me. i like the strings to wrap around my fingers and the notes to hang from my ears and the tip of my nose. i don't like cold ivory, even though i think it's so beautiful. it scares me to touch it, i am afraid to stain them. guitars seem dirtier to begin with, any punk can play it. you can sit in the dirt and play and not ruin your dignity. piano's are formal. talented. so is guitar, but somehow guitars are far less intimidating. piano's call to me to reach out and caress them, and then punish me with squawks. guitars run and squeal like little kids, and i can play ring aroud the rosie with it even if i am taller than the rest. maybe if i covered my piano with stickers it would like me more,i would like it more. maybe i need to personalize it, but really, piano's stand so straight and tall and black and white and you feel bad not to have the talent to worship it like it's asking for. i was going to take this piano and guitar thing and turn it into a metaphor but it's doing fine on it's own. if someone asked me who i am, i think i'd say more than my name. i think i'd jump on that chance to write a poem but you just blinked and missed your chance. i don't learn anything when you tell me your name. i don't know why you did. i just hoped, in asking, that i would prompt something bigger. I see: my hands in front of me as they type. the computer screen is empty, nobody is talking to me right now. it's a cold thing, IMs. but even colder when there are none. i see a horrible hole instead of the 'write mail' window. it's sucking everything into it. i have no voice when i sit down at the computer. i see letters and words taking shape before my mind even thinks of them. i don't know where they come from. something shooting through the top of my head, streaming power down into my arms, through my wrists, and out through the tips of my fingers. these words are my own and they're not. i don't know where they come from, really. but once i put them down, once they exist, i read them and it confirms me. i believe them. they make me. I need: something other than a candy necklace wrapped around me. these rings i'm wearing glow in the dark, but there's nobody here to watch. i need people. really. everybody does. i need a throat that isn't sore, i need to be able to yell at the top of my lungs. even if i don't. even if i'm in the middle of a crowded food court, and i know i won't, i need the option of doing so. i need to know that i can change what doesn't please me. if i don't like something i need to know that i do not have to oblige. i need to know i have this control, this power. that i have this power. i need to hear words in my ear, i need to feel arms around me. i need to see poetry inspired by me. i believe in my existence then. i need validation, again, just like everybody else. but i'm not so "insecure" as i was before. but i still need to know that when people talk, they are talking to me, not just to that space next to them. i need their words to go in one ear and stick. to percolate for a while. i need to be able to respond to them. i need time to stop when i want it to. or speed up. i need responses. i need comments. i need my actions, my words, to be reciprocrated. i need you to call me back. I find: that i don't want to do this anymore. suddenly this introspection has gotten me exhausted. my fingers ache and my head hurts. my eyes are slowly falling. the editor is winning. i find that my mind works against me far too often. i don't want to keep typing. maybe i'm afraid of the secrets my brain might reveal without my knowing it. maybe i'm afraid of what i'll find. I want: no more silences. i want to end these pauses, when i am just sitting at the keyboard, my mind stalled, stuck on some lost sentence, some forgotten poem. i want to inspire! i want to be inspired. i want to create i want to be created i want to be creative i want i want god i want so much. i want to hear your voice i want to feel your teeth i want to see your eyes i want to hear you laugh i want you to make me laugh. i want my journals to come alive and give me the answers to my endless questions. i never want to find an end to my questions. i want to stay curious. i want to see my friends i want my friends to see me. i want that house in berkeley. i want to be a dreamer. i want the radio to stop playing the same three songs over and over again. i want to be on the radio. i want to sink into velvet. i want to walk naked in the rain. i want to have more emails. i want my voicemail box to be filled up. i want to publish my own books and crochet my own skirts and sew my own shirts. i want recognition. i want all of my ideas to have my name next to them. i want all of my lost poetry to come back wagging their tails behind them. i want the right people to IM me. i want you to call me. i want to fit in, but not with everybody. i want to go to a place where there are no curfews, where the air is like a storm and i can sleep next to people who know how to cuddle. i want a massage that digs into your body and you try not to freeze up. i want tape mixes and packages and i want to move. i want to go somewhere where i know the people walking down the street. i want to go somewhere where there is an endless supply of strangers to meet and smile at. i want to flirt. i want to wear wings. i want the telephone to ring. i want to write. i want to finish this. i want somebody to reply. i want not to want too much. I have: potential. i have a voice. i have a journal. i have fingers, and toes and a toering. i have earrings, ihave a fair amount of rebellion. i have a lack of judgement. i have family. i have friends. i have a dog and a house with a pool. i have a large phone bill. i have fingers that will never stop once they start. i have eyes that glow, they make me proud. i have a laugh that makes somebody light up. i have a genuine smile. i have a lot of things that i'm proud of. i have a fascinating life. i have a lot of passion. i have addictions. i have obsessions. i have a limited amount of restraint. i have a big mouth. i have friends i don't talk to anymore. i have zero hate in myself right now. i have a heart. i have tears. i have blood. i have favorite songs, songs that make me cry, songs that make me laugh. i have songs i plan on writing. i have just heard a compliment that made me smile. i have so much. I wish: on stars. i remember lying there on the pavement, watching the stars, laughing, hurting, aching. i couldn't think of a wish, i had everything right then. except time. i wish i had more time. i wish that i had longer than a minute to make a wish, longer than one star falling. longer than 365 days to be one age. i wish the distance was shorter. i wish these songs didn't make me cry like they do. i wish that i always have more days ahead of me than behind. i wish that you were here right now. i wish you'd read the poetry and know it was for you. i wish you would never find out. i wish i knew exactly what went on in your brain. i wish i knew that my laugh really made you smile. i wish you could see me cry and fall in love with my sadness. i wish you would see me laugh and fall in love with my happiness. i wish i had attitude. i wish i had you. i wish i had the words. i wish i was more succint. i wish people read this. i wish on stars and daisies and rail road tracks and tunnels and graveyards and eyelashes and slugbugs and pink cars and cars with one light and the moon and straw wrappers and i wish my wishes would all come true. I love: clay. i love to feel it slip through my fingers, i love the fact that my fingers are so strong, that i can make this clay do anything i want it to. i love everything about clay, and ceramics, the studio, the people, the corny oldies music we play, the dilapidated couch in the corner, the smell of toxic smoke, the sound of the kilns, the taste of the air when we're rakuing. i love the fire. i love the water. i love the chalkboard and the orange chalk, i love the display case outside, the sand carefully designed, the cabinents covered in pieces of wrapping paper. i love the pictures on the door, the doorframes that i jump to touch every time i go outside. i love the rickety plastic table, the old ashtray, i love the thick maple tables inside. i love the fact that dry clay is toxic, but wet clay is clean and good for you. i love throwing, i love the wheels, the ufo wheel, the energizer wheel, our old wheels - the fire wheel, the fish wheel, the polka dot wheel. the old metal refridgerator with flames painted on it, the lockers all painted, my locker especially. i love the chalk drawings in the windows, the flowers out front. i love the sinks, the two big silver sinks that would overflow if i didn't clean them out. i love the schmuck bucket that collects the slurry. i love the big gate, the clay cage, the kiln shelves, the fire bricks, the electric kiln, the tool box, the penny jar, the blinking ceramics sign. i love the people. i love the laughing. the hum of productivity, char's earrings, les's earrings, char's red glasses, her shoe obsession. les's goofing off, duckworth's sickness, jeremy's cruel teasing, jon's experimenting, levine's bmix, adrian's shoes, gly's bobbypins, big john's chuckle, matt's..tallness, dolph's acceptance, charlene's overalls, traci's corduroy, shannon licking the raku pieces, paul's eyebrow ring, cory's staples in his ear, holly's belly button, everything. i love it so much. 7.17.01 suddenly the world is obsessed with love. it's just an ordinary summer day, there's a breeze, maybe that makes it a little bit special. i could understand if it was february and we were all wondering who will be there with us holding our hands as we walk down the hallmark aisles. or if it was december and the misletoe above my doorway was starting to fade. i could understand if the nights were cold and my blankets not cutting it. buton nights when i don't even use the sheets why should i want another person's warmth around me? i've become obsessed with the music
in this one movie,
silly love song after silly love song.
a doomed romance --
i would have handled it differently.
but anyways, i'm infatuated with infatuation.
the sappier the better.
i'm starting to worry myself
how can songs about being a whore in paris, in 1920
speak to me?
i've only kissed 2.5 guys
(long story, don't ask)
maybe because she can
cry and stay beautiful.
maybe i just want songs like that
sung to me
maybe i miss having
an "our song"
special song
secret song.
love is always intertwined with music the things that are too sappy, when we can't say them with a straight face put a piano behind it and suddenly we are swooning. so the world is obsessed with love,
out of season love
the kind that flower shops and
greeting card companies
makers of heart ballons and
candy boxes
have yet to take advantage of.
every poem i've read today
has been about love
or beauty
but isn't love just seeing
beauty in someone?
every song that has come out
of my beat up radio
has sung the sad love tales of
all the rich and famous
don't get me wrong. i'm not wanting a movie star love complete with closeups and soft lights and satin sheets. i think i'd just settle for the akward affection of two kids who want to be near each other even though they each have cooties. you know, i think the first graders have got it down better than most adults do where cooties are concerned. but now "cooties" has a different name STDs. Aids. doesn't exactly evoke images of shrieking and giggling on a playground, does it? who are we to be craving love when people are dying from it every day? affection turns into infection forget your broken heart -- that's not vulnerability. sometimes i think i just might never let anyone touch me especially on summer days like this when the breeze is more than welcome and sweet things just look sticky. sap runs from the trees and from the poets into their pens. who are we to talk of love eternal in this land of fuck and runs worse than many crashes on the freeway if only there were sires to warn the rest of us. WARNING. DANGER APPROACHING. PLEASE TURN BACK. wouldn't that be nice. but do you think we'd listen? half of the movies released are about people doing stupid things for love. so mabe we're getting what we deserve. it's funny to think that today, just an ordinary summer day (except for the breeze) people are dying. people are giggling. and there. (pause) someone just fell in love. Oh woah. Wow. Oh. Geez. Jesus Christ. Roya. Keep. Writing. Please? ~Jasmine ditto. kirk Wow. I LOVE this last one... so i've got this little pocket mirror in front of me, it makes my eye so big. and i can just stare,it's like i'm tasting something lime. and my eyes are a drawing, the kind of drawing i'm always striving for. i want to take my picture and leave it for you to find. no it's not conceited, but i just saw magazines cut up and pasted in my pupils and you know i could have that. i could hold myself ransom. i might, next week, and you'll have to call and leave the funniest message to win me back. my range is small, my voice is shot, but the songs about lost loves always fit. i have a box of oil paints, waiting to be used. i'm making the biggest mistake, waiting for inspiration. i can see my life, as textured as those oils on canvas, with fairy's collaged on top and newspaper clippings held by paper clips. all of life will be color. i'm in no mood to settle for anything less than what i want tonight. i want real people. and so i'm tired of talking to you online. i don't want to get any phone calls. i don't want things to be the same as before though. i wonder where my emotions went, they didn't get out of bed this morning when i went to work. so it's tired, and my voice is weary. i suddenly got butterflies; this life i am going to lead, i will love it. love love love it, but it will be so hard to hang on. i want the kind of life that eats it's breakfast on a tightrope. walks barefoot through cactus at midnight, yeah but those stars burn bright don't they? my life will want quarts of my blood. and my eyes will get hazy, covered with so many words, my eyelashes with so much glitter. how tired will my wings get, i wonder, trying to hold me up? candles will burn every night. i'll have a record player, and own a thriftstore where we hold poetry slams; the mannequins telephathicly communicating with those at the microphone. italian soda's will run from fountains, my heart strings will be christmas lights. i found the life i'm looking for. she reaffirms it every day. cigarette holes in pictures, old boyfriends, and all. i believe in paralell universes, i can see myself in her shoes, in her paintings, in her dreams and in her stories. i am living my life vicariously through her NBTSWikiWiki | Recent Changes Edited 12 times, last edited on December 10, 2001 by royaboya@nbtsc.org. © 2000 NBTSC Webmasters |
