I did want to stay in bed, in all actuality; I haven't been sleeping well lately, and I was tired, but I wanted to stay in bed with you and lazily wake up with you in my arms. I'm fine as long I can hear the sounds of your preparation: the shower, the water running as you shave, the noises you make when you iron your clothes. But the moment you leave, however joyous it makes me when you come up to the loft, dressed and shaved and smelling divinely of lotion and after shave and shampoo, however sweet and gentle the kiss is as I lay in your bed, my hair still a mess, my eyes only half-opened, it's mysteriously heart-breaking when I hear the door close and know that you've gone to work. I'll see you tomorrow, and though it shouldn't make me melancholy, it does. The bed seems so vast, so empty; I smell your scent on the pillow next to me and I want to cry.

Announcement:

I just attempted to print a document. My printer printed said document without emitting disturbing noises and rapidly spewing forth numerous pages on which, almost mockingly, a single smiley face is normally printed.

This is a big day for me.

Alrighty. Note to self:

Previous post is very important. I was, however, tired and approaching a very long day of school and vagina monologue performance. I need to elaborate on the billion different ideas I squashed in there, however. So, your job, little reader, is to make sure I do that some time soon. Got it? Cool.

Important points are as follows:

-the relativity shpeal (speele? Shpeale? Is that even a word? I'm too tired to have a clue. You know the one I'm talking about, right? You do? Cool). So yes, I need to explain why Hume is a jackass. As is our little friend Immanuel Kant. Hume more so than Kant, but they're jackasses all the same.
-the whole "I see my life in prose" thing. Quite true, that one. Must be written about further.
-there was something else in there, I think. Find out what it was, and then make sure I get back to it, and don't let me slack off! Under any circumstance! Got it?

Cool.

I see my life in prose, in bits of description; the streets I approach and walk down and through are met by my curious reaction before I even catch glimpse of them. Relativity is rubbish; I believe it truth; I feel no need at all to define it, but I believe in it. This truth is subject to interpretation, but truth it still is, and our interpretation of such does not void the reality which initially spurned said interpretation. I know that my mind slightly alters the things that surround me, in one way or another, and no one will ever see the world quite as I see it. I catch pieces of promising observation and I feel like a child attempting to catch the wind when her arm is stuck out the car window. Not to say I don't succeed; the mortal hand of the child does indeed capture the wind, and she holds it as long as the car forcefully pushes nothing into her little hand. One might think that she's left empty-handed as the car rolls to a stop, but to the contrary; gushes of wind are the most palpable things I think I've ever held.

I couldn't be happier with the way that I think. My ability to express such is found wanting time and time again, but as for the musings that govern my mood, I am, for the most part, an optimist. Regardless of my mania and my frustrations, the observations I make reveal a world of beauty and of potential.

Everything fits together when the aspects of this world are but devices in my paragraph, and nothing is disagreeable when every occurrence is merely method for my craft. Life is more pleasant when it is simply a thought you have yet to write.

I had a nice weekend. I spent the vast majority of it with Bryan, as I normally do. On Friday we went to dinner at Bella, which was splendid, complete with trendy music, hordes of trendy people, and marvelously overpriced food. Saturday we attended our tango lesson (yes, we're taking tango lessons, and we're damn good. Just for the record, however: if you wish to try and test a relationship, take tango). Later that evening we cooked dinner and I got completely tanked on a bottle of Italian wine (we still don't know what kind, exactly; it was one of those mysterious table wines of some mysterious berry that never quite comes to light. We purchased it because the man at the adorable wine bar in Hyde Park told us to, and after the fact I've come to the conclusion that he doesn't even work there at all, but rather is a homeless man that sleeps on the corner and occasionally trots into the store, poses as an employee, and aggressively recommends the worst wine he can find to gullible shoppers. Not only are Bryan and I gullible shoppers, but we're polite ones as well, and therefore had no choice but to purchase the wine as he advised us to). To my credit, however, I had also had a couple glasses of Stonehaven chardonnay, which surely explains why I was running in circles and attempting to rock-climb the concrete floor while animatedly screaming as I pretended to fall.

Yes, yes, I know dear reader: I'm an annoying drunk. But lord almighty, how I enjoy myself!

I've stumbled over my lack of constraint like a pair of floppy shoes, and now I've nothing left to say. Do as you wish, darling; do what you do. I'll see you again, in the rain; that glimpse of red will haunt me as I quickly turn my eyes from you and studiously focus on whatever can distract me; I'll shuffle towards the back door of the shop as I desperately try to get away from you.

To all those fellow "bloggers" who insist on starting blogs and feel that the one time you posted way back in 2002 is sufficient: go to hell. For those of you "bloggers" who find it acceptable, and, for some reason, worth your time to execute the above stated annoyance with 9 different blogs: go to the only place worse than religion's fictionalized hell: Newark and/or Detroit.

Today I decided to browse the blog profiles of those who currently call Cinci their home sweet home. 40 profiles were found, and all either contained 1-4 posts total or were written by individuals who listen to Kenny G. Needless to say, Cincinnati is not the intellectual mecca of my faithless dreams.

Stupid lazy-ass Ohio-ites....

It's at times like these that I wish I had a god to pray to; pressure builds, opportunities become convoluted, and my future depends on something that depends on something that has something to do with Ohio residency. How nice it would be to fold my arms and bank it all on faith.

Unfortunately though, I've decided to believe that my future is built solely on the consequences of my actions. I've been scrambling around the UC all day to day, (by the way, PARKING IS A BITCH) and I left the crazy campus with less hope than I had entering earlier that day. Though crowded, the atmosphere of the UC is what I want and what I need; the design building was massive and complex, and thoroughly enjoyable. The industrial program in which I hope to enroll, however, is much more competitive than I originally thought, and even if I get accepted I have to find a way around the $21,000 a year out-of-state tuition (I have my wiles, mind you, so it's not as impossible as it might seem, but it's pretty damn close). I'll continue to accost those in charge of the program with emails and messages, but until then I suppose I'll just have to cross my fingers as opposed to folding my arms.

An interesting thing happened the other day, by the way: I received an email from Elisse and called her the following day. I'm afraid the incentive of my original post might be misinterpreted, therefore, for I was not attempting to be passive-aggressive and urge Elisse to strike up correspondence, but merely trying to address what had happened by writing about it. We had a pleasant conversation; things seemed back to normal for a bit, but when I called her back later that day everything seemed awkward. There are aspects of my life that will never be definite, it seems, that will never be simple, but rather will always be multi-faceted, two-faced, and will always leave me guessing. Nothing is easy, even the things that are intuitive.

The cursor of my text editor blinks inside the screen in front of me; comfortably it rocks steadily in and out of view, reminding me that the page is blank, that it hasn't moved since I sat down in front of my computer. I, for a mawkish moment, admire the endurance of this little bar and its insistence to blink. Black to white, there and back, in and out of existence as the metronome of my words.

This paper has nothing to do, nothing to do at all with leaves, or the silly way that they litter my life. I have nothing left to say and no more cunning ways to disguise the fact that I never had anything to say about leaves. The journey of a writer, however, inspires volumes in my mind and means everything to me. Without expression, after all, we have nothing. The thoughts we think often lead us to growing beyond those same thoughts, yet at times they lead us to contradiction; we run around in circles as we chase truth, beauty, pain, whatever it is we endeavor to wrestle to the floor and force onto paper. Thus is the crux of each writer's task: there are millions of words, thousands of styles and voices in which to speak, but developing the perfect way to articulate one's perception takes a lifetime. I don't understand what surrounds me, all I know is that it is beautiful. Greedily, quite greedily, I desire to capture it. Notes scribbled down on napkins, bits of writing on my hands, for some reason these scattered fragments lend me peace because they seem palpable. Words, however beautiful, will not define my reality- I wouldn't have it so, dear friend, for truth exists behind the thick fabric of our arrogant discernment- but they help me discover what I truly think and eventually help me to change my mind over and over again. A true irony, it is: writing about my exhausting confusion is what makes me happy.

I've probably started thirty journals in my lifetime. We're all guilty of this crime; we spend twenty dollars on a flashy product from Barnes and Noble, we justify the expense by reciting the importance of frequent writing in our minds as we finger the shiny cover, we promise to write. A week passes by and already the journal has joined the others, and it lives a nice, full life complacently collecting dust on the shelf as it wastes our space. I cannot express how tragic this is, I cannot impart how regretful we will find ourselves. Countless times I have looked back over my writing and found that my most trying times- those that would probably yield the most insight- have come and gone without a single snippet of thought. I let days, weeks, months pass by as I neglect the process that nourishes me. Let us be honest with ourselves: frequent writing is the only thing that separates a writer from an idiot holding a pen. Disciplining myself to write daily has proved to be excruciatingly difficult, and, during various spouts of time, completely hopeless. When I have succeeded in this arduous challenge, however, and have managed to write steadily for a certain period of time, I am always overwhelmed to remember that the raw process of writing never grows easy, and that the rabid slew of editing and revision that follows never grows thin. Our present ideas chase those of the previous sentence around, above and back again, and I hasten to paste them together and make sense of it all. I come to new conclusions and dismiss those of the past until it is time to rediscover the old and start the cycle over again.

The journey never feels like an ideal path that winds around green hills, but rather a high-school track with hurdles of steel and sharp drop offs that leave me thoroughly confounded. That's how it is meant to be, I suppose; that it is how it functions best. Our sentiments sit on the concrete floor in front of us like newspaper clippings, and I'm confident that a shard of rhyme and a sliver of reason will eventually float to the top.

I don't think I have demons, so to speak, that lurk in my past. No real secrets lie there anymore, forced into repression by external guilt and a lifestyle I never understood nor truly wanted. Things are just things, if I might be so brilliantly articulate to say; things that have happened. It would be foolish to once again embark on the bold pursuit of daily writing with a fresh update of where I work and what I've been doing, because that's not writing. None of that matters, and it certainly won't provide the necessary excitement or vigor required to invigorate my lazy writing habits. I dance around the things that plague me, these things that have happened, and I attempt to ignore them though I know how they affect me. Namely, August 12, 2005: my birthday, and, ironically, the last day I saw or spoke to Elisse.

The simple thought of the ordeal bears witness to the damage I have done; where are the dates, the times, the emotional upheaval and the heart-wrenching despair, why have I neglected to write about this? I now have nothing but a brief overview of the affair, an overview that has been knocked out of focus and robbed of detail by the months I've allowed to pass. What little I have now, however, shouldn't share the fate of the rest of the story; as lame as the saying is, "better late than never".

Elisse had come to visit. I remember, through all the uncertainty, that her flight was delayed and I fought back frustrated tears as I teetered on my high heels and rushed from terminal to terminal. I clutched a piece of paper upon which the words "PUDDIN HEAD" were printed in large, capital letters- I thought it charming to stand next to the chauffeurs and hold my sign proudly while boasting a serious, stern expression (needless to say I summoned many a curious expression from passersby) - but my plan was foiled, and when I finally found her the silly sign was crumpled and in my purse. She wore a black peasant skirt, and told me through her amusement of my frazzled condition about the man she had met on the plane. We climbed into daddy's convertible and sped towards the city.

Of the days that followed there is little to say, I suppose; we went out to eat plenty with my father and spent the rest of the time lounging about the house. We went one night to Eden Park, kicked off our shoes and sat on the edge of the gazebo while we chatted into the placid buzzing of the bushes around us. We discussed my father, my currently secret relationship with Bryan, her life and mine. Without her I wouldn’t of had the courage to tell my father about Bryan, and I will always feel rightly indebted to her. I miss the comfort of those particular nights, those particular conversations, and as fatiguing as tears are I long for the connection I could only ever establish with Elisse. This connection, however, was of the deepest kind, and shared between two very arrogant individuals, and it therefore produced endless spouts of bickering, tears that flowed angrily and generously, and, most unfortunately, a fallacious resentment for Elisse that I easily stuffed deep inside of me and never bothered to confront. It was she, after all, that exposed me to life outside of Utah, outside of the religion I was born into. It was she that provided the intellectual oasis for which I hungered, and naturally my life took a course that differed from the average Mormon high school student. I still don't know why I blamed her for the consequences these changes brought- the suffocating guilt I felt from the belief to which I had been espoused so long, harsh judgment and animosity from previous Mormon friends, though I had always despised them, and my mother, above all the complete chaos brought on by my mother- I blamed Elisse, be it secretly, unwillingly, or perhaps completely unconsciously.

The frustration always lingered, always loitered about when I was alone, always resurfaced, though it was never expressed and never approached. The disdain billowed freely inside of me yet didn’t appear to exist outside of my bitter thoughts. I’ll never forget the scorn with which my voice shook when I looked her in the eye, during one heated argument or another, and announced without flinching:

“I hate you. I will always hate you.”

I remember the silence that followed, I remember watching the blow as it was delivered and tragically received, I remember the look on Elisse’s face as her expression dropped and her mouth opened in pain. I remember half-assing an apology, still angry, still infuriated. I remember her saying that some things can not be excused or swept away, that some things cannot be retracted once said, that she couldn’t bear my malice and treat herself fairly simultaneously. I remember my father trying to mediate while we cried and accused each other with our jaws tightly clenched.

Above all, I remember standing on the porch before she climbed into Cindy’s car, and bitterly hugging in a weak attempt to lend poetry to the ordeal. There was nothing poetic about this moment, nothing at all. In a relationship so consumed with passion, companionship and extremes, this ending seemed so meaningless. There was no fire in our tears, they were merely tears that ran down our cheeks and bloated our faces. I didn’t cling to her as I watched her go; childish hostility pulled us away from each other regardless of how close our bodies were. We were through playing grown-up, we were done wearing our posh heels together and talking philosophy, tearing down others in our elitism; the haughtiness of our games had faded to reveal that we were children fighting over crayons, that I was too young, too foolish, too utterly consumed in my self-preservation to realize how fucking happy it made me to know that I had her. We were children.

At least I was. I went inside, and spent the next couple of days spewing insults and promises of hatred into the journal she had given me for my birthday. Twenty-eight pages passed, and once I had filled them with the dirtiest, rudest, most hostile words I could muster, I was fine.

Completely fine.

The resentment I had allowed to fester inside of me for years, literally years, melted, mysteriously, into that leather-bound journal. I was fine.

Completely fine.

Except for the fact that I was alone now and Elisse was gone. We had pushed each other away, and in the end I triumphed; it was my bitterness that ended our friendship. She’s in Salt Lake now, I assume, doing whatever it is that she does now, associating with those that surround her, filling her days with what she chooses to. I know nothing as to how Elisse has been, and it kills me. I hope to god that she’s in school, that she’s taken care of, that she’s still with Carter, that she’s happy. I hope she’s still a snob, I hope that she still laughs and that she still cries. She’s stopped writing in her blog, and I can’t help but think that her cessation acted as a final mean of finalizing the space that lies between us. She writes elsewhere now, in a place that can’t reassure me. My writing, though neglected, sits on the same page where it has always been, and I know, somehow I know, that she’s visited it at least once since she left, and if she hasn’t she will. I just know.

As to the journal in which I carved the murderous, enraged thoughts that released me, I haven’t opened it since.

I’m simply not brave enough to.

Perhaps I’ll sneak to the library during my break and type what I have written. Perhaps today is the only day of release in the midst of an impetuous stream of damp, thoughtless times. Perhaps I’ll return to you, perhaps I’ll sloppily continue to neglect you despite my new-years-resolution-esque promises to come back. Perhaps I’ll tell you what has happened, perhaps I’ll finally explain why I clumsily forced Elisse to leave me. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Fuck fickleness.

Fuck the topic. Finally, paper lies before me and begs for my words, and finally I am forced to deliver. Yesterday, like every day of the past five months, I promised myself I’d write- about anything; the fierce sunset that captivated me during my drive home, the bland emptiness of the day, the depression of the rut I’ve slipped into- but like the months before, my day comes to an end without a word to show for it. Here I sit in this juvenile composition class, and I realize that I’ve denied myself what I need. I need to write, I need to express myself, I need to look over the pages I have written and therein explore. As I write I realize that I might ignore the necessity of expression, but it never fades, merely continues to burn hungrily in the unconscious. What is a life if it is undocumented? What is growth if it is ignored? Dearest reader, I have returned, and relief drops to my head and trickles down my body. I have so much to tell, sweet friend, and I’ve discovered so much! I beg you to listen and make me tell; drag me back to responsibility in my writing. Let me impart the tears and laughter of these past times. Sweet friend, my darling, my love, oh how I’ve missed you!

Generally, life goes well. I am working at two restaurants: Chart house and the Claddagh Irish pub . Bussing tables can be tiring, but in the end it's the best money available and it pays my minimal bills. This semester draws to an end peacefully, leaving me with four A's and the previously mentioned B in accelerated calculus (grumble), but all in all I feel very little pressure from my finals. My thanksgiving went well, and I look forward to returning to salt lake on the 23rd for a couple of days. Things are calm, and I am happy. Generally, life goes well.

If there is any bit of wisdom that my eighteen years have afforded me it is the knowledge that intensely emotional interaction is costly. Bitter tears certainly have their place, but they must be respected and reserved wisely before they wear thin the ties of companionship. Do not dress selfish escapades in the fine, transparent linens of humanitarianism and selfless concern; I have seen such attempts once, twice, too many times, too many times have I been the perpetrator and acted in the same way. You honestly mistake your endeavors toward reassurance, and, if needed, reinstatement for selflessness. I stand exasperated, too experienced in the matter to retort with hypocrisy yet not wise enough to act maturely, with equity and compassion, and handle the situation well. My face is clean, my eyes are dry, and we are okay, but I remember the consuming despair such scuffles can lead to; I know the tears that rattle you, that keep you from breathing but won't let you drown. I recall the deadly, bittersweet time and note that I am now too old to cry like that. The realization rises to my mind and I smile: such is not true, I'm afraid; I am, and always have been much too young to cry like that.

It is frustrating, darling, to find that I’ve fallen into a relationship that’s flawless yet so damn inconvenient. I see opportunities to slowly graft myself back to normality, back to the norm, back to the meaningless expectations. They don’t tempt me, darling, you know they don’t; how ridiculous to lend a second to distraction when every moment brings my thoughts back to you. I take his number, wishing his endeavors, though innocent, were as platonic as they appear, that his odd Kentucky gentility and truly sweet demeanor didn’t hold hopes of something more than friendship. I wish I could call him, that I could begin other friendships I so direly need without feeling guilty or inappropriate. You and I happily operate outside the borders of the masses, benefiting from subversiveness and enjoying phenomenal compatibility, every aspect of our world perfect save its isolation. There are times, however, when I gaze towards the big city, rife with vice and pettiness, seething with destructive unimportance, and I long for the comfort of stupid, meaningless people who understand.

Darlings! It has been a long time since I last enjoyed your audience, mainly because of my heavy school load and such. Midterms are over, however, and my decision to discontinue my accelerated calculus course presents me with double the free time, due to the fact that my mathematic studies comprised roughly 70% of my schoolwork. I’ve already earned 3 math credits for the course, and I don’t need calculus for my desired degrees, so why bother? Regardless, the grueling math course is now over (the grade marking the cessation of such is a mediocre but nonetheless hard earned B), so hopefully I can write more frequently now that I never, ever have to differentiate anything EVER AGAIN. Huzzah.

I look forward to being bombarded by the copious amount of time that awaits me, although it will have to be spread out thickly upon numerous necessary activities. I found a darling Pilates studio downtown which I plan to join. I also need to start building my extra-curricular activities so that my transcript can be all sexy-like. I somewhat dread doing such, because- don’t tell anybody- I don’t really care about the college democrats, presidential ambassadors, or the dolphins I plan to save with my fervent adoration for all things natural. Quite frankly, they can all go to hell as long as I go to a better college.

Well, I’m afraid it’s time for my 11 hour bussing shift. Ta ta, darlings, I’ll write more on Tuesday.

Today was my only day off; after school I work on Monday, Friday and Saturday, Tuesdays and Thursdays are spent with the boyfriend, as are most of Sundays. Wednesday, however, is mine to spend as I see fit after I finish school at 5.

A frenzy of school work and bills has caught me in its rushing grasp, delighting me with the thrill of true progress and burdening me with hours of school and work that takes 6 days of my week. This one day, as redundant as the epitaph is, is my escape. I am free to watch TV, eat a bag of popcorn, or work out if I so desire, all in an attempt to forget the deadlines and be lazy for an evening. My routine, however, has robbed me of that leisure. Only a month of school has gone by and already I get anxious when I’m not hurried. A nervously psychotic smile explodes onto my lips and fades the second I think of how to best utilize the free time. I want to do everything I’ve forsaken in sight of work and end up bogging myself down in a flurry of 5 lazy activities I foolishly endeavor to do at the same time. It honestly took me 2 episodes to figure out that exercising, watching sex and the city, eating fruit snacks all while trying to stuff my face with popcorn is simply not a good idea.

My bedtime has come and a wave of nausea settles throbbingly on top of the usual exhaustion. My head aches from the sugar of the 4 packs of fruit snacks, and all I can think about is the studying I could have done.

I suck at this game.

We have met the enemy and he is us: I am positively fascinated with symbolic philosophy. e= object of observation. t= logically inconsistent but empirically equivalent ideas. To explain all I have struggled to articulate about relativity in 3 variables is nothing short of brilliance. Oh, sweet stimulation, how I embrace thee!

Dearest reader: forgive my absence. On the 22nd of August I started school, and I have toiled laboriously ever since. My classes are splendid, I am soaring through every one of them, and I have found a certain delight in life that's been missing for a while.

I will write, though not as frequently as I once did, and my posts will be mostly academic dialogues required for classes. There is merit in everything, I have come to see, thus I will post all that I can.

Till then, my darlings, let us remember to live well. Life quivers with beauty; do not forsake that which longs to tempt you.