Saturday, February 28, 2004

update

i haven't been able to get on the net because a few days ago ie crashed. and yes ie is our only browser, so we were pretty much screwed. my dad downloaded the newest patch on ie 6 today off some other computer, and we installed it here. needless to say, it would still crash. well, not so much crash as it wouldn't show up in our program files. so after about an hour of searching, i found an ie file, tried to open it, crashed again, followed internal link on the "send error report" thing on the chance that maybe, just maybe the browser might open up. it did. followed internal link to pestpatrol, finally found the evil winshow files on my computer, deleted the bastards, and here i am now, able to get back on the net.

this whole ordeal has confirmed yet again why i hate windows so much.

will post sometime in the next week or so, but i must download all the windows updates right now so as to keep this kind of shit from happening so often.

that and i have some sort of application thing that i have to have in by march 1st.

this was not a post, just an update. a, non-post, if you will.

that is all.

Saturday, February 21, 2004

when all i can dream of is you

here's the deal:

i started writing because it was the only way i could escape my reality. i didn't want to hear it anymore, be in the middle of it, i didn't want to have to deal with it at all. so i read constantly, and when i wasn't reading i was writing. fiction. because that way at least i get to control the world inside my head, put it down on paper where i could marvel over something that no one else understands, has any idea what i mean or why i did it, but to wonder how the hell this little shy girl had such a fantastic and slightly morbid imagination.

i started reading less on my own and stopped writing altogether when i got to st mike's. why? i don't know. i was miserable and pissed off and couldn't do a thing to change my situation. i was forced to soak in reality daily, to live in it and deal with it and accept it. and one night i just snapped. and i can remember it exactly, i was alone in the house at night, blaring busted, sitting on the couch with my notebook and a pen, and i just started writing. and i kept going, and going, with the song on repeat and my legs crossed under me and my pen raging on the paper, small words, very small words written in my real handwriting at the time. i always write small when i really mean it. and then i looked at what i wrote and it was exactly how i felt. it wasn't finished, it still isn't. a thought just hanging in midair that i can never get back, and believe me i've tried. and i don't know what it was that hit me then, but i know that as horrible as i felt, everything was right with reality because i could write something down.

i have five spiral notebooks now in my collection that i keep by my bed so i can tell exactly if anyone touches it. all of them are filled with at least one poem, one has the original drafts of all the poems from my poem book in tenth grade. and i have two spirals on top of the trapper keeper that holds the rest, ones that i've procured from old schoolwork in the past couple years, spirals that i've tried to write in. both hold one insomniac revelations, both hold one story, one finished and one not, one has two poems. in all 36 poems (28 being from the poem book, 16 of them being valid), two insomniac revelations, two stories. I have one small dark blue unlined journal that i've written most of my decent things in since nov 2002. one dream, six pure writings, three of which i've posted in the past year.

i have a creative writing journal now, black sketch book, that couldn't be pure black (which should have been my first warning) so i put the hridaya on the front.

i have two blogs, the first one being an addition to my original website, when everyone thought blogs were stupid and i was a freak for liking it so much. i publicized the first one, and got horrible results. it was, just as i wanted it, an addition to my website, filled with meaningless crap about what i was learning about html and flickerstick rantings and other things about how i was having a hard time with my computer. and then i wanted to actually write on my blog. but i couldn't because i had already given the address to too many people (including a couple members of family). so i made this. and it was pretty much what i was feeling, avoiding particulars and getting deep down into the meaning of things, like how i ideally wanted to write. scatter in twenty or so pure posts and that's been how it's been.

with blogs it's always been the understanding that it's better to post now than to wait, that you post even if you have nothing to post about. that is, if you have the time. some people do that extremely well. some people can wait days or weeks between posts and it's ok, because the writing is good, at least has some thought put into it.

my theory for the past two or three years has been that if i write enough, even if most of it is really crap, i'll get some really decent posts, some pure thoughts and feelings. and for the most part it's proved to be true. this blog is filled with so many bad posts, and a few really awesome ones, ones that are my goal.

i got into creative writing with the knowledge that i'd have to do journal writing every day. and i wanted that. i wanted to write every day, to force myself to filter through all the confusion in my head and explore a thought completely. to be able to get back to the point where i'm not hiding and i'm not censoring myself from other eyes. to get back to the point where i don't care.

it hasn't happened how i wanted it to, that should have been a warning to me the moment i thought of it, planning ahead, no matter what, never works out. all we've basically been allowed to do is write on topics, topics that mean nothing and are more junior high than anything substantial. that and i've been writing around 10:30 at night, and i've been tired almost to the point of breakdown the majority of the time lately. i've stopped writing on the topics that she's given us, thinking that maybe i'll be able to write. all i've been able to do is write about how i can't seem to write. that and death, but i've been writing about death for years now. and now that whole journal is tainted with fake writings that are assignments, and daily writing isn't going to help me at all.

i go through extremes, sure. i'm not really content in anything anymore, not that i was content before, more like i was just trying to ignore reality even though i was trying to live in it. the fact is, i can't write on my blog when my family is around, just like it feels with nails on a chalkboard when they touch me. writing on paper is so pure and true that to write anything fake makes me feel horrible. i write in a few pages in a spiral notebook, and then move on to another one months or years later, a spiral for different lives. a blue journal that i've hated yet seems to be the only place where i can write pure. a blogosphere that i don't want to be a part of anymore, because every little troll with no respect for anyone can flame people they don't even know. and i'm not in the middle of any of them, it happens every day outside the computer world, but because i've been so caught up in this whole thing for two years now it makes me feel so, jaded. to the point where i want to disappear. and i might, i've been contemplating it for the past couple of months, every time i see more anonymous comments and trolls and plagiarism and fake people (as in people that don't exist) and people accusing others of being fake people.

i've tried to come out of myself, let people see me, speak my mind and participate in discussions and be a part of life, at least a semi-social one. i've been to the other extreme, and i felt totally alone. now i've tried this extreme, and still feel totally alone, and i think that's worse than trying to be totally alone. i've tried the middle way (oh my research paper is running through my head right now, and it makes my head hurt because i believe in it), or at least i've tried to try the middle way, but straddling two different universes (universi) makes the noise so much worse.

i've put myself out there more than i ever have, and i feel nothing. there's no release, no contentment, nothing. i'm not paranoid about anything really anymore, because i just don't care. i'm only seriously paranoid about the one thing, and that's only because most all people in authority don't understand and will definitely use it against me. my friends, i'd like to think they wouldn't freak, because i wouldn't freak, but it creates a line of question and mistrust that kills a person. and i'm keeping it from them, not because i'm afraid, but because i don't want to have to deal with it. i'm at the point right now where i don't want people to know who i am, because it does nothing for me.

and right now i feel that i have to let go of these relationships. i can't feel you anymore, i can't feel anyone anymore, and it's not fair to hold on to something that you have to let go of in the end. everything is transient, and i shouldn't get attached to anything or anyone. i have, and it's not right.

i hate looking into the future, because it doesn't exist, but i have to now, i have no choice. and the fact is that i have to change back to be able to survive with any sort of sanity. i have to be able to write, but i can't write meaningless things anymore.

i'm not trying to live a happy and content life. i'm not looking to live a full life with companions and lovers and meaningful work and improving the world. i'm looking to make the noise in my head go away, and if i can't do that, at least be able to write the noise down. i can't do that right now, so something has to change, and the only thing i can change is me.

Saturday, February 14, 2004

like the darkness of sleep

i don't know what the hell i'm doing.

i just got home about half an hour ago to find my house completely empty. everyone's gone, no note and no message on the answering machine. i'd call my mom's cell except that i don't really care that much about where they went. and i figure if someone's dying they'd at least leave a message on the answering machine. so.

making blog rounds, found this link: be my anti-valentine. sorry kyle. just reinforces my thought that every original idea has already been publicized.

this past week was beyond pointless, but i did get in some decent stream of consciousness writing, even though most of it was about how i haven't been able to write in over six months.

found out about the meta summer bridge program and now i figure i'd be better off just keeping the three weeks and working for that time. i'll make less money (probably), but i don't want to deal with it, and being at state will just make this damn choice even harder.

yes yes, no real writing, but the truth is anything i have to say (or have been wanting to write about for the past week) will no doubt get me in some sort of trouble. i haven't talked to anyone really in a long time, and i don't know if that's a really bad thing or a good thing, but anyway i'm starting to disconnect, which i guess was the goal anyway.

Thursday, February 12, 2004

revolution

because i don't have the energy to talk about this yet again:

does this have to be reality?

couldn't find a permalink, it's today's post (11 feb 2004).

off.

Monday, February 09, 2004

i HATE doyle

if anyone knows where my agenda is, if i left it at school, tell me.

also, if anyone knows my english homework and any other homework that i have to do tonight (excluding physics) please tell me.

the losing of my agenda now means that i will probably have to attend school tomorrow.

in fact, it absolutely means that i have to go to school tomorrow.

i really, really, really hate you doyle.

Saturday, February 07, 2004

how to waste 3.5 hours

convert this into this.

Friday, February 06, 2004

statement.

i miss kittens.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

seraphine

i just finished watching underworld a few minutes ago. i was thinking about vampires last night. i've been on a vampire trip for a while now, that and the crow. unnaturally into the crow and vampires, even more than i was when this all first started, whoever knows how long ago.

just when i'm allowed to start writing again, i can't. i figured this whole thing would jump start me back into writing, but it's the same thing all over again. i can't write what i want, i have to abide by rules and formulas. set topics and the constraints of words are always what end up killing it. i just need a week of sleep, a week of darkness and solitude, rain and wind, despair and agony. being content kills my desire for life, slaps away my desire for death. and both are needed in order for me to be able to write anything with substance down.

i need a new form of intoxication.

Sunday, February 01, 2004

follow up

i didn't intend on posting today. my brain is fried from the research paper, and i still have to do the physics labs. but i had to check my blogs today, just because i'm compulsive like that.

kyle posted a link on his blog a couple weeks ago: bush in 30 seconds. i never watched the entries or the winner because i didn't want to bother with it on my 56k modem, but i will eventually.

anyway, connor posted a letter from MoveOn.org, about the winning entry of bush in 30 seconds, how cbs wouldn't allow them to purchase a timespot in the superbowl. also posted an article about the whole thing.

i just thought it was a good follow up to the whole thing.

i'd say more, but as i said my brain is fried.

and i totally didn't mean to use that many links.