sigh.
makes me sad when people take something in a nearly complete inverse to the way i meant it.
wasn't offended, and didn't mean to. :: 20:36
(speak)
...
and on the second day of spring, it snows.
upstairs, we'd been listening to familliar songs with a cello accompaniment, and songasming over the breathtaking result. someone clomped up the stairs, asking,
it's spring, right?
yeah... then why is it snowing?
at which point i leapt across the room, cackling with glee, gave him a delighted kiss, and flew down the stairs to put my shoes on.
outside, the marmaladestreetlight showed little soft flakes drifting leisurely down, just barely enough to frost the parked cars. out came the cameras, with seconds-long exposures to catch the path of the snow.
and if they turn out well, i might just have to scan them and find a place for them here. :: 12:04
(speak)
...
:: march 21, 2002 ::
stumbling around the recently blogged list, i discovered this.
makes me wonder, again, what this page is for. if the things i say here are pure self-indulgence, if i'm writing anything that's worth the time of whomsoever decides to read it. if i should be channeling it all out into the real world, instead of turning it into little shapes on a screen.
then again, most of my life is defined by those same little shapes, on the screen and on pages and in my mind.
i've had a webpage, in some form of disrepair or another, for three years now. i've changed during that time, and my voice, my writing, has changed to reflect that. my first page was little but the disjointed ramblings of an angsty sixteen-year-old... and i don't know that what i'm writing now is much different. more eloquent, i'd like to think. less personal, maybe, too.
i don't direct my posts towards people so much as into the void of the internet, of the universe, to some arcane and faceless audience that exists mostly in my imagination. i'm still writing for myself; this has always been primarily a selfish endeavor, some place to spill the little nagging thoughts that richochet around inside my head all day.
spring is here, and outside the window, a tree softly explodes into pale green. the rain has finally stopped, and for now the sky is blue.
so i'm still writing, and good luck getting me to stop.
:: 13:15
(speak)
...
this house is full of weird animals.
there's the really fat hampster, which shuffles around its cage only to eat and drink, and otherwise cloisters itself away in its little nest.
and then, there's the bizarre albino frogthing, which just creeps me out to no end. it's just so pale and sqirmy and has these little black toenail things and ugh. i'm not particularly squeamish, but this thing just gives me the heebiejeebies.
is that spelled correctly? heebyjeebies? hmm...
:: 10:22
(speak)
...
:: march 20, 2002 ::
waffle, ice cream, maple syrup and, just to make life perfect, strawberries.
encapsulated in their own warm universe, they spin and twirl, connecting breifly and then spiraling away. sometimes a bond forms, pure electric energy, and they stay sosonear to each other, touching across their whole length and breadth until entropy and gravity pull them apart again. sometimes they are trapped in one place, slamming against the wall over and over, turning tight circles as the rest fly past.
yes, i anthropomorphize my socks.
they work hard, i think they deserve a little humanization.
i knew there was a reason i don't own a tv.
:: 16:35
(speak)
...
strange that, when you desperately want to be alone, the world crowds around with flashbulbs and theme songs and plaid pants; when you finally are alone, the silence is deafening and all you want is the right pair of eyes to speak across that distance and fill the void. :: 14:43
(speak)
...
i meant to sleep in late today. late, until three or four, roll out of bed groggy and disoriented and stumble to the shower and then down peter's interminable stairs to a breakfast of sorts.
however, it's only noonish, and i feel annoyingly well-rested and, instead of a few hours to kill, i have now a full day ahead of me with absolutely nothing to do.
there are, i suppose, worse things. :: 11:53
(speak)
...
:: march 18, 2002 ::
and happy birthday, dragoneyes. i miss you. :: 16:46
(speak)
...
we make plans so that god has something to laugh at.
everything was to be perfect, and it's not that i'm bitter so much as just wistful and longing.
but sitting in the car we could hear the snowflakes falling, whispering against the windshield. the poor reception and lack of cd-cassette converter allowed us opportunity for long, languid conversations spattered with little sarcastic snippets and observations on the surrounding scenery.
"did that just say "deer processing?"
we just passed a shed with a sign that said "deer processing."
where the hell are we?"
short hair makes him look different, and i tried to pinpoint exactly what that change was. occasionally i would glance over and be startled, remind myself that a change in hair, as i should know, does not make for a change in personality.
though then again, sometimes it does.
i think back to my pathetic two-punch strike against my parents, my experiences, my image of youth and innocence.
waist-length hair felled in one swipe so that it barely reached my shoulders; a month later, even that gone, so that less than an inch stood nakedly against my head.
i shrieked every time i saw a mirror, for at least that first week.
and with nothing to hide behind, lacking the reflexive femininity of a cascade of curls, i think it did change who i am and how i interact with the world. i think i can say that i became more aggressive, more outspoken, at least in part because people looked at me and expected it.
in the soft light of late evening, i look up from where his hand rests on mine in a lull between gearshifts, watch his left hand at the steering wheel, arm up to shoulders, to the face i know as well as my own. even without the tumbling shock of hair i'm used to. he slants his eyes at me, smiles.
the snow hurls itself into the headlights. :: 16:43
(speak)
