I have been trying to change my display picture for, quite literally, 3 weeks. Everytime I try to change the bleeding image I get Cannot find file at specified URL: link is broken (failed request).

WTF man, WTF.

 

Christmas was interesting. Bryan came over, and three days later dad was on the phone with him telling him to discontinue seeing me. It’s been an interesting couple of days indeed.

I ran away again. (ran away, read: I turned my phone off while I was out and came back 45 minutes before curfew). Mum did things that were really unforgivable. I’m pissed off.

Dad suggested I consider going back to Cinci. Consider it I will.

Today I cried for an hour and watched Seinfeld for 4 and ½.

Bryan told me something extremely funny that Larry supposedly said a while back. This occurred after I asked Larry for a crit and I hadn’t been working nearly as hard as I should have been.

“That prissy little face, you just want to slap it.”

At this moment in time he briefly paused.

“And she’d like it.”

While surfing on some random website I stumbled upon the best little humorous tidbit I've heard in a long, long time:

"I will never get married. My mother is a social hand grenade"

Sirenic Lament

If only I could ascribe
all affection and inclination
that there dwells silently inside
to flights of the imagination
and crafts of a spirit most unkind,
that I in such do take dire pride,
the torture of the inner mind
I then attempt to actualize.
If only that were the extent
of the labors oft performed
in name of Aros’ great intent
and all convictions were deformed.
But alas, I ache to see,
that while pretension does abound,
the soaring thought of purity
does and always will hold ground.
It does flourish; it does thrive
in the most unlikely places,
the glance of ardor is alive
in the most sardonic faces.
That bitter cross of bliss and pain,
though feared by scores and throngs
will be felt and felt again
if for sound joy one longs.
And so I fear I cannot hide,
and what afflicts me still:
when rapture bids I let it guide
go to the fire I will.

note: I was hesitant to post this because I simply cannot write in iambic tetrameter. Iambic pentameter drove me mad in 9^th grade, and I vowed never to bother with it again.

Oh, it doesn’t matter. There are, indeed, a million ways to rationalize and justify all that I do, but it really doesn’t matter. I’m not worried about anything right now; I’m going to go change, curl up underneath my covers without removing my makeup, and I’m going to slumber peacefully and happily.

My date with Austin was fabulous, but my date with Bryan was better.

My eyes fell upon him immediately. The curious observation wasn’t spawned by his looks; although his features were anything but ordinary they didn’t generate a handsome or attractive face. I had met him before, this boy, and was rather surprised to find myself riveted by his seemingly inconsequential visage. A smug smile was forced from within as my gaze ran over him twice and then again. The way he acted, the simple way that he sat was absolutely captivating. The players around him tuned their instruments, sitting up properly and upright as expected as he smirked at the floor in front of him with squinted eyes. His dress matched that of the orchestra, naturally; he donned the same vest and uniform black pants, but his white shirt was the only wingtip with a French cuff. The high collar embraced his neck and framed his debonair, arrogant face ever so nicely. I noticed, rather quickly, that he had rolled up his sleeves to just below his elbows. The position he took in his chair was one that allowed the white shirt to flow smoothly down his arm before encountering the rolled fabric, and then that stretch of bare skin. When juxtaposed with the upright, starched and pressed boy in second chair next to him the semblance contained in this boy was enthralling. The aristocratic collar, the slackened back, the arrogant, open mouth, the casually yet beautifully rolled sleeve, it was all alluring, nice. I watched him as he slouched in his chair, with his upper back arched, his head raised and eyes on the floor, with a hand slung by his chair. His oboe swung in his completely relaxed left hand, and he didn’t move until the performance started.

When it did, however, he didn’t jolt upward and nervously finger his instrument like all those around him. He remained completely blasé, and when the time came, he slowly lifted the oboe to his mouth and began to play. It was entertaining; I knew exactly what he was doing, but I didn’t read it as such. As he played I almost saw the smoke from his Thai opium pipe curl up and surround his unperturbed face. I could picture him, such as many others, partaking of the drug simply to further think; I could see him stare off normally as he continued to inhale and slowly exhale. He adjusted the mouthpiece a couple of times, but remained for the most part as if in stone, sitting intelligently, his unconcerned eyes half closed, forever divinely insolent.

hmmm...phone... 

In so many ways I despise the disintegration of the language I’ve spoken for years; to read and to witness the mellifluous orchestra that was once a daily, almost routine exchange truly makes one pine for a return to the old ways of speech. The drab slur that whirls about me every second of every day never satisfies the need to express oneself, and I doubt it ever will. But, just like everything else that surrounds us, be it laudable or despicable, the dreadful vernacular that dribbles out of the mouth of almost every American does serve a purpose. It creates, you see, a simple and easy way to sieve through those who hear and target only those who are able to listen. Whenever I’m bursting with whatever sentiment that certainly is not a tidbit of information suitable for an audience composed of certain, matronly ears, I simply remember the darling ways of those who came before, and I’m excellent.

Today was fabulous for many reasons, all of which can be traced back to one particular reason, I suppose. Yes, I took my physics final and finished up my studio project in but a matter of hours, but it was spectacular because, well, the sky welcomed me a bit differently today. Even rough gravel intrigued me as opposed to dampening me; every curve was a bit softer and every jagged line a little bit less severe. My jovial frame of mind perfected the weather, the people I passed by and talked to, and even the exams were cheery in their own, firm way. Alas, it endures, and even this moment I feel as if I could yawn and find myself swept away by the supple wind. A tired but absolute grin rises to my face, and the world is a song once again.

Of course I’ll come back to this with that familiar salty savor on my lips, freshly falling from predictable but sincere angst, and I’ll curse myself for my silly foolishness. I see that moment hanging on the horizon, I do. But I can’t honestly say that it concerns me. Let the wind take me, let the rivers have me; I’d grin all the same to float down a tributary such as the one I’m bound to find right now.

Daddy comes in seven hours, and I can’t wait to see him again. I think I’ll stay up and clean, or perhaps not. It matters very little, I suppose. Goodnight my lovelies, and I hope you cherish the zeniths like I do. The depths are waiting, and, as sure as anything on this temptress of an earth, they will greet me soon like they always do.

No. Absolutely not.

You have no immunity to raised eyebrows

and carefully crafted questions

placed so well after a pause

in the conversation.

Your eyes flicker up once,

twice,

almost unable to constrain yourself.

Bask in the warm washing rays

of all you envision, all you think of,

while the world looks on and infers

a deluge of disrepute.

But go ahead. Go on and watch

all your fears rain down on you

in shards of self hatred

and regret.

Go ahead and fly,

only to rejoin the earth and see

that you left your God

seconds after you found him.

oh my goodness. Watch this one too. My stomach hurts from laughing, that is the funniest thing I've ever seen.

Hello. I'm still busy with finals and what not, and I will be until the 15th. I just wanted to drop a line and encourage all of you to watch the video clip of a very drunk elvis trying to sing.

Funniest video ever.

I looked out the window in uncertainty. Today was the first and only jury of studio, and I was scared out of my right mind. Crits had become unbearably painful for this last project, and I truly came to dread them. Today we were presenting our projects to a jury, a combination of 8 grad students hand picked by our very own Larry.

Larry entered the view and Mitch turned away.

“They going to be nice to us, Larry?” He inquired.

“Are you kidding me?” He grinned. “I picked them. They're going to make you cry.”

I refolded my scarf for the fifth time. That comment couldn't have been less necessary.

The actual jury wasn't too bad. They understood that this was our first jury, and treated us accordingly. I introduced myself and my concept, and stood back as they began to gently critique my work. It wasn't until Larry stepped forward that my fears were completely justified.

“Sorry, “ he said. “I said I wasn't going to say anything, and I haven't, but the jurors are being too nice. Your project is sculptural, not spacial. Your faulty concept fails to hide that you have yet to address the issues in the problem. This, this isn't doing anything. It's not working. It's much too linear; it fills space but doesn't activate it. Were you even listening during our last crit? I mean, we showed you the few things that were working, and I can't see anything in this piece that reflects that. It's not working.”

I glared back at him and nodded. The jurors promptly agreed.

After the crit I went to prof. Adams to get my grade for the preliminary. I scored a 1.4 out of 4.0, exactly half the points of the worst grade I had ever received. I nodded as the professor told me exactly why my project was rubbish and barely germane to the problem. I nodded back in complete agreement and returned to my stool.

I glared at Larry again. I don't care about Professor Adams and what he said. Respect is required for hate or anger or a sincere wound of some kind, and there isn't an ounce of respect in me for that man. But I respect Larry. In a sense his presence has always been a consolation; he does a spectacular job of trying to be a complete dick, but after all has been said and done his intentions aren't, well, completely cunt-master-bastard-ish (do excuse the language. Bad day.) Every hateful word that's ever been said to me and every one that has yet to fly my way ran through my head as I scrambled to find an expression, an action, anything offensive enough to portray my disgust.

I sat in that stool, listening to the rest of the critiques, completely down trodden. I shook a bit as I squinted my eyes and trying to calm myself. I barely noticed the soft nudge on my arm.

It was Larry, standing next to me, his eyes still lingering on the project that was currently being critiqued.

“Did you get good advice?” He asked.

I nodded, motioning down to the full page of notes written in my sketchbook.

“Good. Don't crap up your project because you have yet to make minimalism work. Just sit down and make it work.”

He stepped forward to talk with the jurors. I sat on my stool, my fingers clutching my mouth in mock contemplation, my crossed legs resting on the bars of the stool. I glanced down at my sketchbook to see a sheet of light pierce the window to my left and fall on the floor in front of me.

I just wrote a rather lengthy update. If you haven't noticed, it's not here.

Apple Computers are EVIL.