What lies beneath our skin is far more important than what appears above it.
Skin itself holds untold secrets.
Everybody looks above or below, and so these unknowns remain hidden.
Search within, pierce the cell foundations.
This casing which we live inside is beautiful.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Jimmy
Tonight at roughly 7:45 PM I discovered how it feels to know that there are people watching out for you, every second of every minute, for no other reason than that they care about you and you are important to them. Tonight at roughly 7:45 PM, my friends told the waitstaff at the Texas Roadhouse it was my birthday (it wasn't) and asked them to sing Happy Birthday to an extremely grumpy me. Tonight at roughly 7:55 PM, the waitstaff at the Texas Roadhouse came up to our table, forced me to sit on a riding saddle (I sat side-saddle, as all English ladies should) and wave a napkin in the air. Tonight at roughly 7:57 PM, I retreated from my temporary brushed-leather prison and scooted back into the booth, face red from both humiliation and amusement. I was embarrassed, so completely embarrassed.
"Sam are you crying?!"
I was. Not because I was mortified, not because I had laughed myself to tears. Because two girls hold me close enough in their hearts to do anything for me.
I love you both.
"Sam are you crying?!"
I was. Not because I was mortified, not because I had laughed myself to tears. Because two girls hold me close enough in their hearts to do anything for me.
I love you both.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Can Anybody Hear Me?
Today my teacher remarked on the self-plight of blogs. They are, he claimed, nothing more than dim cries for attention, for someone, anyone, to know that we exist. ("I'm here! I'm here!") There was a fair share of les bloggers in the room at the time, and a part of me is curious to know what they were thinking, listening to these words.
Certainly some blogs are nothing more than doldrum expirations of time. Clicking the "next" button on the toolbar at the top of my page is a fairly strong reassurance of this fact because usually I see five consecutive pages of Spanish advertising...cool.
Yet I feel like the ones I read are not meant as evidence, as proofs of existence. I am aware of the writers, keenly alert to them when I see them in school or on the street or here or there or both. Sometimes--and I'm sure this sounds, in some degree, lame--sometimes the best part of my day is sitting down and placing myself beside these people, reading what they have to say, absorbing their thoughts, thoughts which are pure and raw and beautiful. Their words have meaning, if not to everyone then at the very least to me.
Sometimes I secretly hope that there is a person who sits down at night ready to catch a glimpse of my mind.
Certainly some blogs are nothing more than doldrum expirations of time. Clicking the "next" button on the toolbar at the top of my page is a fairly strong reassurance of this fact because usually I see five consecutive pages of Spanish advertising...cool.
Yet I feel like the ones I read are not meant as evidence, as proofs of existence. I am aware of the writers, keenly alert to them when I see them in school or on the street or here or there or both. Sometimes--and I'm sure this sounds, in some degree, lame--sometimes the best part of my day is sitting down and placing myself beside these people, reading what they have to say, absorbing their thoughts, thoughts which are pure and raw and beautiful. Their words have meaning, if not to everyone then at the very least to me.
Sometimes I secretly hope that there is a person who sits down at night ready to catch a glimpse of my mind.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Faust
I'm trying to write a script for my drama class.
I keep thinking to myself, This should be easy.
I write poetry all the time. It pours over my school work, leaks onto my hands, even sticks to the rubber soles of my shoes.
The theatre is my second home. I've read dozens and dozens of scripts this past summer alone.
I keep staring at the notebook in front of me, thinking to myself, Why isn't this easier?
I want to write about something real, something in my life.
I understand it best.
Why is it that everything true seems incomprehensible on paper?
No one believes the truth anymore.
I keep thinking to myself, This should be easy.
I write poetry all the time. It pours over my school work, leaks onto my hands, even sticks to the rubber soles of my shoes.
The theatre is my second home. I've read dozens and dozens of scripts this past summer alone.
I keep staring at the notebook in front of me, thinking to myself, Why isn't this easier?
I want to write about something real, something in my life.
I understand it best.
Why is it that everything true seems incomprehensible on paper?
No one believes the truth anymore.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
MC 18
I've been moving up and down today, not really in my mood so much as my level of intensity, which consistently fluctuates between this enormous passion for living and then this quiet reserve where all I want to do is people-watch. At the moment I'm at a standstill between the two, anticipating the switch perhaps not eagerly but certainly with an almost shy level of expectancy.
I feel everything right now. I feel everything on this elevated plane, at an altitude where I no longer see people and instead I see walking frames of distinct emotions. Yesterday I was frustrated and I looked at my friends and all I could picture through my narrowed eyes was heat, this red energy that they had no control over because I was creating it, because I was so embittered that their smiles seemed like jeering pokes, because I felt pricked by their ability to laugh and joke and jest while simultaneously I stood trapped in my inability.
Yesterday I watched a girl and a boy walk down the hallway together. Their fingers tapped, flirting with the idea of partnership, and yet these appendages seemed more to me like incongruous cogwheels. The pegs fit mostly due to pressure, to force so heavy that manipulation sets in and everything is faked, like when you tell yourself that the two puzzle pieces you just joined actually do fit together and that the minuscule slivered crescent moon of blank space lying in between is intentional. Their fingers were incongruous, not with each other but with the standards set for them by the bodies they inhabited. Yesterday I watched this girl and this boy, this immaculate pair, travel down the hallway, their backs to me, faces toward things they don't know or don't understand or can't possibly anticipate merely because a combination of youthful naïveté and inherent uncertainty blocked the window ahead. Yesterday I watched them and I felt love in the purest form, in a way that is unlike any love that has consumed me before. I looked at them and I felt their need to be near another person, their desire to have something, someone to walk alongside toward an unsettled future. I felt the comfort and security of an extra set of eyes and of an extra body and of an extra voice. The French have one-hundred and fourteen variations of the word "love." Yesterday I felt all of them.
Everyone is absolutely beautiful lately.
I feel everything right now. I feel everything on this elevated plane, at an altitude where I no longer see people and instead I see walking frames of distinct emotions. Yesterday I was frustrated and I looked at my friends and all I could picture through my narrowed eyes was heat, this red energy that they had no control over because I was creating it, because I was so embittered that their smiles seemed like jeering pokes, because I felt pricked by their ability to laugh and joke and jest while simultaneously I stood trapped in my inability.
Yesterday I watched a girl and a boy walk down the hallway together. Their fingers tapped, flirting with the idea of partnership, and yet these appendages seemed more to me like incongruous cogwheels. The pegs fit mostly due to pressure, to force so heavy that manipulation sets in and everything is faked, like when you tell yourself that the two puzzle pieces you just joined actually do fit together and that the minuscule slivered crescent moon of blank space lying in between is intentional. Their fingers were incongruous, not with each other but with the standards set for them by the bodies they inhabited. Yesterday I watched this girl and this boy, this immaculate pair, travel down the hallway, their backs to me, faces toward things they don't know or don't understand or can't possibly anticipate merely because a combination of youthful naïveté and inherent uncertainty blocked the window ahead. Yesterday I watched them and I felt love in the purest form, in a way that is unlike any love that has consumed me before. I looked at them and I felt their need to be near another person, their desire to have something, someone to walk alongside toward an unsettled future. I felt the comfort and security of an extra set of eyes and of an extra body and of an extra voice. The French have one-hundred and fourteen variations of the word "love." Yesterday I felt all of them.
Everyone is absolutely beautiful lately.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Shrugged Off
Why is it that sometimes we feel so incredibly lonely but to reach out to people seems like the last thing we should do? Maybe it's because every now and then, when we extend our frail, thinning hands, hoping desperately that stronger, warmer fingertips return the gesture, all we feel, all we perceive, all we get is a sharp, obvious push away.
Why is it that some of the people we need most are the very same people who make our lives miserable?
In this, we are all hypocrites.
Why is it that some of the people we need most are the very same people who make our lives miserable?
In this, we are all hypocrites.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Close Encounters
Today at the EcoTarium I was almost attacked by a screech owl. Kathy, the trainer, was putting her back in her cage and she latched onto the door and went flying across the room, straight toward my unprotected head. Meanwhile I freaked out and ducked my head, shielding Carrot Top, the Eastern Box Turtle I was working with, from this flying fluffball. Luckily she skimmed over my head and landed her notched talons on the glass snake case a few feet in front of me.
In other news, I think the turtles have become a bit too comfortable around me. Dr. Evil peed on me 8 times, and his mum, Notch, peed on me once. Like mother, like son?
Furthermore, I miss you.
In other news, I think the turtles have become a bit too comfortable around me. Dr. Evil peed on me 8 times, and his mum, Notch, peed on me once. Like mother, like son?
Furthermore, I miss you.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Paper Clip Beauty
Every morning, my hands slip into their accouterments. Five bands of silver, one of gold: six rings that circle, surround, enclose my thin fingers. Each has immeasurable significance, possessing a story as beautiful and individual as the printed fingertips they slide past each morning. Around my left hand slide five bracelets, settling in a congregation just below the base of the palm, at the nape of my wrist. These, too, carry histories all their own. The Livestrong on my right hand, its bright yellow rubber a stark contrast to my pale skin, first attached itself in eighth grade and has remained a constant presence ever since.
To others, the jewelry I wear is simply that: pieces of metal hardware, rings and bracelets meant purely for decoration. Yet these ornaments are appendages, extensions of my fingers. They have intertwined with the hands of another, felt the warmth and silent love emanating between a gentle squeeze. They have experienced the rough and tumble of Willson Osborne's "Rhapsody," jerked up and down allowing notes to pass through hollowed wood and burst into the colored tones of a contemporary masterpiece. They have gripped thousands of pencils, hundreds of pens, contributed to the words that align and realign themselves into stanzas, into poetic expansions of myself. My bracelets have hugged and have danced. My rings have tickled and wiped away tears. Every night, these pieces part ways with my hands, temporarily separating their existence from my body, until the next day, when I lengthen and extend myself through their metal forms once more.
To others, the jewelry I wear is simply that: pieces of metal hardware, rings and bracelets meant purely for decoration. Yet these ornaments are appendages, extensions of my fingers. They have intertwined with the hands of another, felt the warmth and silent love emanating between a gentle squeeze. They have experienced the rough and tumble of Willson Osborne's "Rhapsody," jerked up and down allowing notes to pass through hollowed wood and burst into the colored tones of a contemporary masterpiece. They have gripped thousands of pencils, hundreds of pens, contributed to the words that align and realign themselves into stanzas, into poetic expansions of myself. My bracelets have hugged and have danced. My rings have tickled and wiped away tears. Every night, these pieces part ways with my hands, temporarily separating their existence from my body, until the next day, when I lengthen and extend myself through their metal forms once more.
As I Step to the Edge and I Sign With a Kiss
Today in homeroom we all had to fill out Senior Superlatives. EW. They're fun, just because they're fun. (If that makes any sense at all...it makes sense to me at least.) But superlatives are also....so contrived, so artificial. Catie Kollins put it the best. She said, "It's the equivalent of saying, 'Well, you, you, and you all have pretty eyes, but YOUR eyes are the prettiest.'" Can you even gauge the prettiness of eyes? Tyler Groll and Alex Nowak both have beautiful blue eyes. As I see it, I could vote either way: either way, my vote would go to someone with blue eyes. (No, that sentence was not redundant, I swear.) And anyway, I think part of what makes eyes so alluring is the connection we feel when we look into them. If I was voting based on that, based on the eyes that I really, really love, the person I'd pick has brown eyes. Which are beautiful, in a deep-chocolate sort of way, but not in the stereotypical, "ohmigawd yo' eyes ah soooo bluuuuuu" way.
Maybe my rambling makes no sense. I really have nothing against superlatives, nor am I bitter about them at all. I just...think they're funny. Years from now, all one will be is an extra picture in the yearbook.
Today's song of the day is "Man On the Moon" by Mario Spinetti, although anything by him is worth listening to. He's a graduate of NYU and he has the most amazing voice, it's so pure and very ethereal and his lyrics are ingenuous and I just love him.
"It said 'Let our nation rise'
I'm a victim to prose in that…
Send my love to the spoon and cat
It said 'Let our nation rise'
Here's to you, here's to solitaire
Here's to star-fishing in the air."
Maybe my rambling makes no sense. I really have nothing against superlatives, nor am I bitter about them at all. I just...think they're funny. Years from now, all one will be is an extra picture in the yearbook.
Today's song of the day is "Man On the Moon" by Mario Spinetti, although anything by him is worth listening to. He's a graduate of NYU and he has the most amazing voice, it's so pure and very ethereal and his lyrics are ingenuous and I just love him.
"It said 'Let our nation rise'
I'm a victim to prose in that…
Send my love to the spoon and cat
It said 'Let our nation rise'
Here's to you, here's to solitaire
Here's to star-fishing in the air."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Hazard
Some truths become
more apparent
with time.
This one has
continually
sprouted
but I've managed
to push it
down
down
down
time after time
and time
again.
Ignoring it
will no longer
suffice.
I stumble over its desire
to be noticed,
twist my ankle
from its gnarled
root
that claws its way
through the soil
and up
across
underneath my feet.
Perhaps if I accept
this weed
its presence
cannot harm me:
I don't know how
to get out of
my own
way.
11/11/09 -- 12:50 AM
more apparent
with time.
This one has
continually
sprouted
but I've managed
to push it
down
down
down
time after time
and time
again.
Ignoring it
will no longer
suffice.
I stumble over its desire
to be noticed,
twist my ankle
from its gnarled
root
that claws its way
through the soil
and up
across
underneath my feet.
Perhaps if I accept
this weed
its presence
cannot harm me:
I don't know how
to get out of
my own
way.
11/11/09 -- 12:50 AM
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
In the Air
It smells like Fall. I can't even describe the smell, but everyone knows it and it's here and I love it I love it I love it. Right now the trees are dropping their leaves in preparation for winter. Right now the trees are burning, flaming bright red and orange and yellow, screaming out to us, Hello, we're dying once again. Life's ironies never cease to amaze me. In their final hours each year, when fire emanates from every branch and whisks at our feet as we make our way down the leafy streets, at this point right before temporary death, trees are more beautiful than any green vibrancy could ever hope to be.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Glow Worm
Last night was the official first White Hot Party. Alex and I spent months getting ready for it and it finally came and it was amazing! I am so incredibly proud of everything. The music was great, the lights worked perfectly, everyone glowed and danced and just had incredible fun.
Last night was the happiest I've been since school started.
Maybe I should rave more often.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Preparation
"There ain’t no sin and there ain’t no virtue. There’s just stuff people do. It’s all part of the same thing.”
-The Grapes of Wrath
-The Grapes of Wrath
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