h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I like being by myself, albeit with roommates but I won't have to answer for anybody but myself and it's a fresh perspective on living! I miss my loves but I still go to them for advice, it's just a certain freedom coming with secondary resposibilities of course. To know new people, cherish the old! NOTE TO SELF: Do not be so comfortable that you cut yourself off and not grow. Have faith in assuming the best intentions. Must unpack. Slow down, Lily, and enjoy. You know what one petty pleasure I indulge in? Playing my music at an audible level in the room! What beauty it is to be able to do anything and still hear the sonata by Tchaikovsky. I could go tomorrow to find the AV department of IT to ask about my work-study job. As they say bite the bear and be bitten. "Sometimes the bear bites you, other times you bite the bear" Oooh to gain spectacular disappointments and to return for more!

Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
By Steven D. Levitt, Stephen J. Dubner
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Themes from Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
I am in awe. Everything's coming together, and I'm beginning to find that I'm going through life with happiness. I'm living! My loves have humbled me, and made me grateful, and wanting to be myself, as I am, this lucky person.

More to write later. Gone with the Wind, Chicago and Hero to watch; Lolita e-book to start on but the disturbing will have to wait in line... later after Freakonomics! And I've submitted an entry on Tolkien and Tom Bombadil to Peer Review. Looking foward to the feedback.

The Age of Innocence (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (B&N Classics)
By Edith Wharton
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Monday, May 22, 2006
Currently Reading
Lies My Teacher Told Me : Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong
By James W. Loewen
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Paradigm - a shift in thinking
There is enjoyment for me, and perhaps a solace in the words of others, as quotes had comforted me in the past, the discourse of my own experience paled in turn with the vibrant resonance of the others who had impressed upon me the messages they conveyed, and I lived vicariously through them, to allow my meanderings a certain liberty of curiosity and by this freedom furthermore I had developed a bluntness that is surprising, but had fared not quite as well outside of the text.

I was taken with second guessing myself frequently, notorious for being incapable of making up my mind and a choice making any decisions. I am cautious, too wary of the consequences of which there are always several I had not foreseen despite the days of premeditation. The truth. I sought it in desperate clutches of scratching my meaning, hoping that by conversing, by discussing the issues I cared for that I was really not spending my life, squandering the precious time in squabbling over the trivial, while missing out on the flavour, the sensation of living with my body, as well as my light body. Once I adjusted myself to that, though the individual sense of responsibility is essential, the individual himself, or herself, had little to do with the controls of the firings from his or her grey matter to the interactions beyond the simple and paradoxically complex reactions, in having decided upon a course of action, or inaction that is in turn action, I would think I know a truth, and then read, or hear, or yes even observe for myself that the truth I thought I knew really was not what I had taken it to be. Well, you know the age-old adage about assumptions. Such was influence micro and macro, at its mightiest. This is the phase where nothing connects except in shocking explosions of what terrible thoughts we locked up in the fantasy barriers for our own protection.

I had never considered myself to be a depressive creature under any circumstances, but lately I had been plague with thoughts of such angst from reading the Sound and the Fury that if it was not for the habits that I formed which I perform with the joy in that they in a vastly changing world still remain the same pleasureable tasks. However even in the liesure of reading, a less familiar element had been introduced, and akin to an unwanted houseguest would not go away. Anxiety: overwhelmingly discouraging concerns over the brutish nature of mankind in general to my own mean pettiness that revealed itself in its unwholesome discourse of giving expression to the inner mechanisms, of the that my devious mind had crafted in vain struggles for significance, for meaning, for, dare I write this, the truth. It's not always enjoyable to be thinking, yet I do not seek the oblivion of my existence, rather intimate with the fragile span of life. Again the arguments, the perspectives, the memories presented by those who have lived, and reasoned, are interesting, breathtaking, disagreeable, humorous... all sorts of descriptions come to mind as the dialogue only accentuates how each sphere of the worlds, the settings be it fantasy like or a parallel, or a mock epic, should and would be. The languages that dictated flowed into a design that would still arouse me to either envy, appreciation or both.

The scope of my worries was realised in the text. Perhaps the books I love most, the characters I have agonized over for sequel after sequel in assessing their character, are the impetus to my great sorrows, when I dwelt in my lowest. I purged to my friends for a while all my insanity, and guilt, then felt determined to be my own woman, expressing independent opinions - I will not quote anybody to avoid thinking about an issue, unless of course somebody had already expressed the very thought more effectively, and all in all better than I ever would have.

This weekend I decided to break away from William Faulkner for a while and borrowed BBC radio episodes of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and went on a feast of nine delightful hours. I even listened to it while in my bath, and this was thrilling, as (besides Beowulf that is) it was the first audio book type I indulged in, and indulge I did...

What a glorious day to better myself, and go about my life, searching for my truths. After all, it is not so much the results as the search that sticks to the mind, is it not? As soon as I was finished devouring Douglas Adams' witticisms that I rose from my peals of uncontrolled, unreserved laughter and immediately sunk, positively engrossed in a biography of Sylvia Plath Hughes, which had for the last hour made me mad. She claimed that madness was engulfing but you lose yourself. How would it feel to lose yourself entirely? I'm afraid that I'm along that process, a bout of madness if one could label it for lack of a better definition. I found myself relating very much so to her experiences, her tensions and all the base feelings she underwent in the phase before her first attempted suicide, then her final taking of her life, though she had the talent, the husband, the family she always wanted, and her stories. The self-uncertainty was quite prevalent, although after winning honor, fame and achievements ... oh dear, thought I, but I really do know how she felt! I never denied my cowardice, my loathsome passiveness about issues I claim to care about, but apparently not enough to object in "selfishness" though when it came time to strike out ambitiously I shirked like a violet, or perhaps more appropriately and befittingly, a lily quivering under the influence of any who breathed upon its coloured petals of disgrace. If I could be anybody I'd say I wish to be myself for a day, and know for once exactly who - or what - I am, the things I stand for, and stick by them. Eerily, Sylvia Plath attended Smith and lived in Wellesley, both Colleges that my sister and I have applied to. Sigmund Freud could define uncanny as he desired, but I think this feeling had not so much association with the repressed past expressing themselves as my utmost anticipation, apprehension of the awaiting confrontations of the future. Perhaps something dreadful would rear its ugly head in Massachussetts. "An optimiste is he who insists that black is white." Ah, I could not resist.

Out of the above mumble-jumble gabbing, the reassessment of my priorities as of today, two things that matter are penned as follows: I should 1. set my goals more reasonably for successes so that I may be happier, and not be disappointed all the time, even while I am doing something there has never been a single piece of work that I felt proud of no matter what people say, that I had not despised for the writing's vile incompetence as compared with the standards of others that I long to prove to, when it is myself that I must justify in my own satisfaction the pleasure or pain is enough 2. admit that I am a worthy person who is beloved, and do not have to be accomplished in any sense of the word to earn that love from my friends and family, may they always prosper!

I conclude therefore with two personal observations. That I cannot sleep but I will try as I've given my word to be in my bed and remain there until class starts, as that is for my own good so that I may be fresh as a daisy for school in the morning; also that I have two mosquito bites that are flaring and itching like there's no tomorrow.

Sophie's Choice (Vintage International)
By William Styron
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"Where do we go from here, when faith and fear collide?"
I remember having a sneak peek at the teacher recommendation on my common application when my guidance counselor accidentally left it laying on her table. I saw the British Lit teacher's answer for one of the questions, what word pops into mind when you think of this student? "erudite?" I went on dictionary dot com and searched up the word for the meaning of it, and ironically erudite means learned.

"Moderation is Not a Negation of Intensity, But Helps Avoid Monotony"

Will you stop for a while, stop trying to pull yourself
together
for some clear "meaning"--some momentary summary?
no one
can have poetry or dances, prayers or climaxes all day;
the ordinary
blankness of little dramatic consciousness is good for the
health sometimes,
only Dostoevsky can be Dostoevskian at such long
long tumultuous stretches;
look what that intensity did to poor great Van Gogh!:
linger, lunge,
scrounge and be stupid, that doesn`t take much centering
of one`s forces;
as wise Whitman said"lounge and invite the soul." Get
enough sleep;
and not only because (as Cocteau said) "poetry is the
literature of sleep";
be a dumb bell for a few minutes at least; we don`t want
Sunday church bells
ringing constantly.

-John Tagliabue

Currently Listening
Nightfall in Middle-Earth
By Blind Guardian
Nightfall
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Little talk of you and me
This one professor wrote about elevators. You know how everybody stands facing the elevator door? There isn't a rule for us to do it so why do we all stand there? One day he went in the elevator and turned to face everybody and said cheerfully "hey guys! Won't it be great if the elevator gets stuck and we all get to know each other better?" Then the most amazing thing happened. According to this professor, everybody got off at the next stop. They probably got off announcing to everybody "watch out there's a crazy guy in the elevator he wants to get to know us better!" and god forbid you should wave your arm around and hit somebody.

We're all so private, aren't we?

The same aforementioned professor writes how his Italian mother hangs garlic, huge bags of the garlic around her children's necks, there were six siblings and all of them wore the garlic so to be warded against sickness. He says that the other children at school always avoided him labeled him smelly and never got to know him. But the odd thing was when he was little he never did feel ill and that he reckoned was because his classmates stayed too far away to spread any diseases. Now that he's more sophisticated and doesn't wear garlic anymore he has friends, and he's more susceptive to the diseases.

Fortune cookie: Traveling more often is important for your health and happiness.

Skivved school today. We saw these two boys playing with balloons outside of the mall and they're without parents, the balloon flew into the street and there were cars all over, so the four of us played with the boys and guarded their balloons until their parents who were working at a nails place came. I shudder to think what they'd be without us there to watch over them. Children shouldn't have need of guardian angels, but sadly they sometimes do.
A as in Disillusionment, not Apple

With the numerous random interests I have cultivated (most memorable a boy at youth group thought to inform me that I am the only girl he knows who actually played Yu-Gi-Oh and Magic in tournaments, the latter which became popular enough that the girls at school started wanting to learn the game so to socialize with the males at lunchtimes), I am not the quietest person in town but I¡¯ve kept the voices on my life small. It was not so much that nothing happened as too many things that affected me, and in effect, shaped this vessel had. I remember one of the times I had been genuinely upset at Jas was when Ryan came to me smiling and saying he knew everything about me. Though I joke and tease a lot, I take my family seriously.



This afternoon I told Chelsea a bit more about my past. Just a vignette really, but the telling made me realise how conditioned I was to silence, and it was some stagnant waters from which I am only starting to grow out of. Chelsea knows about my only aunt, a research doctor in NYC. She was really close to her aunt, and when the woman died a few years ago the hapless victim in a drunk-driving accident Chelsea was devastated, it was as if her best friend the only person who truly understood her was gone. One could never tell one¡¯s parents everything, if only to spare the sorrows of those closest to you in their regards. To worsen the abandonment, her cousins neglected to allow her to share in their grief, preferring to stay away from the painful memories. This sparked a recollection from my family album. In contemporary social issues, I heard of the infants who would cry (their only ways of communicating really, poor things) out of fear that their parents would not return when they leave the room. Once out of the infant¡¯s sight, his mother literally does not exist anymore and he cries hoping she¡¯d return. We learn object permanence later. That our parents will return to us.



May it be I should have the capability in me to forgive my biological mother for her abandonment of us, and one day if she should chose to reveal herself to us, assist her and ultimately forgive and care for her. But it is of no consequence at the moment, since she has chosen to take herself out of the picture, for I will not and I cannot know until I am put into the situation. I can merely hope that if and when the time comes, I will be good enough a person to find love for my fellow human being, though she is a creature I cannot feign to understand, but then again I cannot pretend a comprehension of myself either. Yet my happiness is not specious blessing of one ignorant of what might have been, could have been. I do deserve better, but I also have to seek self-betterment, instead of accepting ¨C no, tolerating all this while. But I am getting onto another tangent once more, and a part of me is beginning to doubt that I truly got over this, as it is unexpectedly difficult to begin with an explanation while my confidence in Chelsea came smoothly.



I have an aunt, and her son Victor is my age, my cousin. His Chinese name is unimportant, for he prefers Victor just as I do Lily and Jas Jas, thus out of inconvenience and for relevance sake, I will leave it at brevity. Every time aunt visits us the lady charms us with her sophistication, her breed, her friendliness, and openness. Most of all aunt was generous with both her time and material wealth, so unlike anybody Jas and I have known in our lives together. We worshipped her and she appeared very fond of us. In between the years these visits were the highlights of our lives, and the only time we really vacationed was with her, since dad is always absorbed in his work, and Star absorbed in her worries concerning Jennifer¡¯s poor sleeping habits, or other aspects of our little sister¡¯s health. Jas and I were grown teens and mature enough to allow this, and I for one had no longer expected any more for myself, though we were wistful for more showing rather than telling of affection. Aunt was the saviour, and Jas wanted to be just like her, to emulate her in every aspect of her character, charisma, and even career ¨C to study medicine. I was less confident in my abilities though I also wanted to be somebody like her, so I spoke little and settled for this contentment in life more serene and orderly than I felt previously. Contact, real intimacy with somebody like aunt, is inexpressible.



One day Victor tells us that he used to compete with us for his mom¡¯s attention (She always says she loves all three of us the same and we believed her words. Our trust in her was complete.) but ¨C he explains - he is no longer envious because he received an explanation that was rather explicit and visual, though not in the graphics one might envision. ¡°This apple I give you, Victor, is my love. For the twins I am giving only the image of an apple drawn on parchment.¡± Whether he said it out of jealousy, spite or boredom I will never know, but I value the honesty that came with these words very much, more than I ever had for the endearing terms of affection. I would rather nobody fake feelings they show for me out of pity.



I must thank my cousin for his straightforwardness, because he lays his cards on the table causing me to trust, to take his words for the truth. Without strong sincere feelings, without evoking emotions and passion, is to shuffle through the cards without the underlying interpretation of the word Life, the meaning, which in turn moves me irrevocably.



¡°Am I a monster or am I a victim?¡± - - > monstrously self-victimize! How much do I resemble Grendel¡¯s nihilism, that there is no intention no design for betterment of mankind (or in his claws creature-kind, beast-kind, and desperate brute-kind) that life is ¡°an accident¡± or I can still trust myself to be true to whoever I am regardless of the conditions of my environment, which is mostly my own projections, whatever they are.



I was also reading this article I mentioned about literary darwinism. More on that later. My eyes will betray me, traitor my body! Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time, Book 6)
By Robert Jordan
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None answer'd this; but after Silence spake

A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:

"They sneer at me for leaning all awry;

What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

I had an argument with Star. I don't start rows and for the first time I yelled back at an authority. It's not regrettable. There was a split second when I was Rodya and knew I could be more than a 'louse' as he said. I had been extrordinary - for me; I am no longer passive.

It began with a conversation over the phone. Not mine. I was not party to the contended issue, which seemed to everybody was clothes, my clothes. Apparantly aunt told grandmother of how well-behaved and neat we were at her apartment, and grandmother was pleased to relay this titbit to Star. Unfortunately, aunt happened to mention cutting the tattered pair of jeans I wore to NY and grandmother wasn't cordial concerning my beraggled appearance. Star did not take well to this responsibility of maintainance. After school she asks me very seriously about the jeans. My reply was worded jokingly - why, it's the fashion! Actually I really liked the pale blue material but I attempted to make light of the matter. Its legs were so terribly ripped because they were very long and a year ago Jas wore these particular pair with her boots that kept trampling until the jeans now reached their current scruffiness. Hang on, I have a headache pressuring down my eyes so I'll cut to the chase. Star tells me I have no internet (no other priority unrelated to school) until I start washing, folding, and packing my clothes in suitcases. All right, I agree pleasantly, this seems reasonable, and thanked her for the suitcase she gave me to wipe down and the light brown winter coat she presented me with. The talk was over. Life goes on.

This morning I woke up groggily. Star says for me to go to my room instead of remaining on the sofa because Ray's coming to be tutored in a half-hour, which was fine with me as I intended to walk to the library anyway, like we always do on Saturday mornings. I finished The Rubayyat and had some thoughts about Khayyam's words. What strikes me the most was that though the persian poems were translated they still have a sort of rhyme to it, and makes loads of sense. Perhaps meaning is lost in translation, but some understanding is still retained, and I began scribbling some random thoughts I will not inflict here. After the tutoring, Star finds me writing in my notebook and tells me to start a load of laundry. Surprised, I open with a statement "I plan on going to the library today" indicating I won't have the time to finish up the laundry load before I go as the library closes at noon, to which she replies "just start one." I shrugged and did as told before breaking my fast and leaving the house.

As I walked around the high school and middle school there were firetrucks and first aid vans parked everywhere. We could hear the drumrolls and see the men in various uniforms, moot black boots, bearing axes, carnations, flags the entire kit and caboodle. Different holidays, different dates flashed through my head without connections, and I was seriously beginning to consider that perhaps the Iraqi affair - I won't say fiasco, there I've said it - is finally over and that I should have checked the NY Times this morning for the headlines. I took note of the Church bulletins one says Love In Deed is Love Indeed, and the other across the street to the right says Life Is A Puzzle - Find the Missing Peace Here. What's going on, I ask Mr. Kiedes the father of a classmate and he tells me it's the firemen's parade and professes his surprise that more people did not turn up for the event, to which I suggested that perhaps people didn't know about it. Mr. K dropped some hints about what the next Principal of our high school is like (goodlooking, innovative and a wonderful sense of humour, had his eye on our school for a long time, researched it well) and talked about buying two records to play before we moved on to the postoffice, and on our way back as it was hot we dropped by Harper's and who should be there but Alison Zoti, my predecessor communications officer of FHS, huzzah she's been out of school for a month now, huzzah again for college students who get off early. I ordered a honeyed confection that resembled a courage cake from my beloved Fool. The bagpipes, well, I love the bands that went marching through Main Street and wondered why here of all the townships.

In a festival mood I entered the house feeling worned down by the thrills of crossing the street and immediated was asked to finish running water into the washing machine. "Why didn't you continue?" She asks and I said, "I was going to, today" to which she complained "lucky I told you to do this now; who knows when you decide that'd be" and I ignored the foul-temper like I normally would.

A tad annoyed that I'd just been denied my sleep I came to the call and did as beckoned to. But she did not stop talking, and what she said irked me to no end. "You don't listen to me." She looks at me with these framed I'm suffering because I'm your Stepmom eyes. "Must I need to fold everything for you?" Gestures at the dried clothes from yesterday hanging off the back of my chair. "Do I have to tattle on you to grandmother and have her talk to you about your disobedience?" I felt so confused. What was I doing wrong? Though she never asked me to do anything about my attire before, if and when she does so I did do as she told me to. "Why do you need me to tell you every three minutes about your clothes? I had to run the water into the wash while you were gone! Do I need to do everything for you?" She knows as well as I that I have never required of her to assume any responsibility for me, nor have I requested for her to clean anything of mine from dishes to my socks. Why all this fuss?

"I have no problem with you telling me what I'm doing wrong or what I should be doing, every three minutes if you feel that is needed. Tell me and I will fix the problem." I say overwhelmed with numbness; my tact ought to be careful enough. "I don't want to have to tell you. You should know what I want already. You just don't listen to me!" I am listening to what she says! Am I supposed to somehow know what she wants me to do every minute? By this time I was getting ticked off. "Do I have to talk to your grandmother about you?" She screams at me, and I scream back. "I am doing it!" then slightly calmer, fighting to control my tone I say tightly "If you have a problem with my workpace, then by all means, tell me because I cannot read your mind! If you want to talk to her then do so. Don't pick on me if you have a problem with your expectations!"

This was received with utter shock from Star and Jas. Me - I was too upset as the tears snuck past I hear Jas yelling at Star for yelling at me, and Star yells back that she was not yelling at me when obviously it's all she had been doing since I walked in. After a gauntlet of hurtful dialogue on both sides, she interjects, "while you were away you treated your clothes nicely, why not at home?" when I said, my words even and cold though my voice is still heated that we were guests at aunt's so of course we try not to make a mess she lost it again, "It's just that you'll listen to aunt and not me." I point out that I'm doing the laundry as we speak and that aunt never needed our help with her wash, and she complains loudly that I should be like I did at aunt's."Fine, I'll be a guest in my home." I let my anger get the best of me there. I want to be comfortable at the house not having a stick rammed down my throat every time I am doing something other than my schoolwork or college forms. "Should I do laundry all through the night too?" I retort when she tells me "I expect you to do it as fast as possible." This was the point I realise how horrible the remark was because it would disturb the sleep of the entire household and we both know Star would never want me to do so. She values health and safety very much so.

Things weren't going well. I ask her what exactly does she want from me and she insists that I wasn't obeying her when she told me yesterday that she wants me to clean up, fold and pack. I refute that I was in the on-going process and point out that my life whatever it is does not just revolve around my clothes, that I have other things to do during the course of a day. Then she says that I disobeyed her by writing my stories in my notebook when she won't allow me on the internet, on the computer even to post them. I write if and what I want, I say to her though normally I know better and will keep my mouth shut but I felt so annoyed not because she would deny me convenience but she would control what I do in my leisure when I get about fifteen minutes of break in between the laundry runs. I ended up saying her behaviour was ridiculous.

"Have you ever seen my attitude so badly before?" I asked. This somehow made everything better. She stopped yelling. I stopped yelling. Finally we begin to reason.

As we talked however somehow everything became not my problem not her problem but a misunderstanding. She expects me to be more mature and to take her very seriously instead of always treating everything lightly. Somehow she envisioned that I was that way because if grandmother had told me to or if aunt had told me to I would have obeyed better by waking up and the first thing on my mind is laundry. When I explained I was being myself we decided to make our apologies and let it blow over. She acknowledged that she was wrong in all the yelling but she meant no harm to me and I knew already.

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell

Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell

The luckless Pots he marred in making - Pish!

He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

The rest of the day we packed and worked in silence interrupted by genuine laughter once more. A full suitcase later including Star's ivory necklace a memento of Tibet, I realised how ridiculously I had behaved, once more.

The Rubayyat of Omar Khayam;: Life and love in one of the world's most famous poems in the classic translation of Edward FitzGerald
By Omar Khayyam
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Rules are merely shortcuts in the decision making process
You are a god send. No sooner has Star banished internet, or my latest confessor Xanga, had Jennifer throw this notebook at me, sitting at the bed with mustering stipulation to clean up this room. I was thinking about laddie again. He comes across my mind often. Anyway, it's odd how he's the only person who has spoken with both my sisters, albeit Jennifer's consists of random letters but still communication. Laddie tells me Jas and I think alike. I'm not sure if it is entirely a positive thing, but considering that we're read the same books, an d been around the same groups of people for our upbringing the observation should hardly come as a surprise. I am shocked because people always remark on how different Jas and I are, on how remarkably reserved I was with strangers. When we first moved here in 6th grade I remember Jesse asking me on the third day whether I spoke English. Now I'm better with strangers though I must work on restraining that nervous giggle and the 'um' while being interviewed by alumni, who are probably more generous in their praise than I deserve. I can hardly flatter myself to be more eloquent or suitably gregarious than the next candidate. Anyway the college process is over already, and graduate school can be dealt with in due time. It's more than the individualism that I'm not sure I like having Jas think similar to what I think. I always reckon that my twin sister has clearer more meaningful thoughts than I have, because her thoughts make her a better person, into somebody I can look up to. I love her no matter what though "I don't know why, I just do" as paraphrased from Blindside singing from their Silence album. Here I am thinking of laddie again. That is another person I admire. I'm most afraid of thinking badly and being incapable of respecting other people, or viewing them as lower in any manner. I want to be a better person but I want to have a Melly mind set and believe everybody is perfect. I used to - as a child my grandparents took care of me and I obeyed their authority knowing that they never will want any harm happening to me. But this protection cannot and did not work because their experience was laden with cultural contrast in respect to modern times: they have wisdom yet their decisions on my life habits were not always the best to form in flexibility. Eventually I learned to adjust - that I must make my voice heard, that my thinking have to be independent, that my mind is made against the stubborn expectations of the family if need be. Yet through my awareness - dormant until woken by selfishness - did not keep my yearning for painting a better face on everybody else at bay. I do not care for compliments upon my person, for they arouse no more than a polite conditioned 'aww', if that. Yet I compliment others frequently and if I should overhear any negatives professed by anybody I feel this indescribable urge that can be attributed less to my sweet nature as to a compulsiveness to defend the person slandered whether I believe in the statement or not, especially when I don't know who the aforementioned is. The decorum of the act makes me feel better, but is the most amoral and hypocritical rule-adherence that I regularly commit. Now I think myself a fair person, but this is hardly justice is it? The accusations could be in the right but I am the defense lawyer who always attempts to bail his or her client out of the punitive consequences regardless of he/she actually believes the suspects' alibi. I'm no Penn Cage, that much is sure. Well, I reckon I better start folding some shirts before I am summoned to plead the Fifth about the disastrous mess this room is in. All of a sudden I was to nap. Laddie could be right. I am a cat.

Received cap, gown and tassels from Jostens. Am waiting for the cords. We just measured out four photos for Bowdoin, which reminded me of the time laddie asked for my desktop size and I measured over 18 inches with a ruler before I knew he meant the pixels/area. In the middle of a laundry run (even I cannot mess up dark colours if there isn't a bleach mixup and I've grown from that experience) I flipped through some older photo albums and was amused to see Star's sporting frizzy fly-away hair and huge coke bottle glasses. She was quite pretty when younger. I wonder if my years as a student will do its unsavory aging on me - if I could assume Captain Obvious I worry a lot (as they say I'm a worrier not a warrior, which is nothing to feel proud about) not the wrinkles per se just the perpetual down-set firmness around the jaw (not slack as one probably expects) and in her eyes a determination that burned from tolerance, as if there is always something unbearable she out of interest for others had been a martyr of. Nowadays society wants its heroes to be self-sacrificing but the strange irony is that if in doing so you get found out, made rich/renown and thereby cannot be self-sacrificing. I compare it to post modern artists who when their creativity becomes produced to consume as mainstream, the art - each masterpieces in its own existence and worth - is absorbed into popular culture and becomes no more deviant than the realism portraits of posed members in the bourgeois. The fun thing is to watch a show on which the woman would say, "I have never told my family this because I don't want anybody to know, but ", proceeding to divulge all the goodies to the world of eager viewers for their listening pleasures. I remain solely at the whim of those who cultivated a sense of humour.

For the past five minutes I've been staring at my illustrated copy of The Rybayyat of Omar Khayyam which I uncannily uprooted from what Mentor lovingly refers to as the horizontal bookshelf, an euphemism for the bedroom floor. I should like to announce that our carpet is exactly the shade of cat sick but that would require my actually being able to see the carpet. And no, it's not that I need glasses either.

Hmm, I do need new glasses, which I will go next Friday after finals, then graduation. My nearsighted vision is awful. Dad thinks it's because I read at night too much. When I was younger I read under the light of the street lamps through the Venetian blinds, but then the lamp broke from a storm. I tell him my poor eyesight is genetic.

"Hi-Ho!" - Kurt Vonnegut

Everybody in history believed Mr. Piancone doesn't read the papers that he grades. Now it seems to me that he does read them. On the top of mine, the only paper without a rubric attached to it, scrawled the comments: 1. Good paper 2. Needs proofreading! This in itself is not so significent. My grammar is so atricious that the red slashed over the first page was evidence, without going on to the similarly butchered fourteen pages that follows. The important thing is, however, he read my paper not once, but at least twice. For on the right of the Good paper remark was - in black pen this time - and ideas. Good paper and ideas, feedback from the second reading. I transfer my attention to the upper right quadrant where one's eye is supposed to be drawn to - according to video text - and see the 90 in black ink. Not a good mark, but I'm glad Mr. Piancone's enjoyed my paper -

Other than that I finished my music video though I have Stoned In Love stuck in my head the entire day, again; though it's such a relief to have Mr. H-Town out of the mind. I didn't realise how heavily this burden has been on me until it lifted this morning. We simply have to export it and burn a dvd Monday and then it's all in the hands of Ryan. Bought and received a yearbook today. The senior casuals was all right but I was the only one who didn't brush her hair for the senior portrait. Figures I'd have forgotten. Chelsea said I look like I wasn't wearing pants in the picture of the four FHS officers. Blast.

I'm exempt from two finals but not the AP classes. Mr. Piancone changes his mind about two day final, but it'll all be essays anyway so I need to prepare a comfortable pen. I have an article I am going to read about Literary Darwinism for world literature. I was irritated this afternoon, because my classmates persisted their chit-chattering during Sense and Sensibilities. Do people not understand that movie time is holy time? It was fortunate that I'd watched the movie before, or else I might not have become so enamoured - or as Mrs. Jennings will say, besotten with - of/with it. Jane Austen's novel was great too.

Laddie's away until Tuesday. His grandmother is celebrating her 80th birthday. Cheers.

Right now I'm looking at the picture. Jennifer calls it my Mona Lisa smile. I feel so gothic.

Somewhere Only We Know
By Keane
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Panoply > Armour
¡°What are their principles? What should be their principles? And ultimately, what should ours be?¡± - Jay Gallagher



Mrs. Miller always told me that our generation doesn¡¯t protest anymore, or if we do we don¡¯t protest enough. We¡¯re no longer aware of anything except what occurs in our own narrow world. Perhaps it¡¯s always been this way, just that I hadn¡¯t ¨C ironically ¨C been aware of it before. With her prompt and my recent insight, I decided to turn out of society by adopting the counterculture creed. As Mr. Stout (creator of the catch-phrase ¡°when in doubt, find a Stout") says no authority knows the answers, and as Thomas Friedman points out in one of the Flatteners, I¡¯m positive it was the supply-chains, people who do not have the resources or distraction of pre-forged connections turn innovative - as they dig in themselves how to compete on the leveled playing field. Walmart runs an obscenely lucrative business, but what does it sell that the company really makes?



I turned on my computer to tune in, to hear what I could not when my radio blared, my mp3 on high with all my favourite musicals and lately power metal or New Zealand bands, or when IM makes its conspicuous dings. Our hearts speak the same words. Laddie quotes from Silence in a private message. Mine sounds rather Alfred Prufrock-esque. When we were little I wondered about feelings. People in the past have thought the emotions we possess derived from the liver, or the heart. The heart is a muscle, after all. Scientists know enough about the neurobiology to indicate that love comes from the brain. But we don¡¯t often see plastic models of brains at Valentine¡¯s for consumers, and most people do not acknowledge love comes from childhood templates, ideals, and reactive protein synthesis. How much of us are just mechanisms, and as automatons we sought. Most truths we hold now are sure to be deemed as inaccurate by posterity. (That was a passive sentence but spare me) There¡¯s too much cynicism, too much distrust.



I used to think that I¡¯d find myself, who am I, be happy, be productive, be a good person and so on. But now I realised doing new interesting things, capturing my youth with more activities, living a glamorous lifestyle won¡¯t make me happier an individual, however sophisticated I seem. I really want to understand myself. That is the truth. The truth may be overrated but over the past few days I¡¯ve come to a conclusion. I want to live a dull life, and the significance I will live my life quietly with certain people I care for, and know that the feelings be reciprocated. For I have to find emotional security first, before self-actualisation can be achieved. With my family, and the family that I chose, I can discover myself over and over again in my friends. Those who care for us, do we love their self-image or projected image? Have I ever directed anger at another for displaying a weakness that I have, the very failing that I had been able to resist until I recognise it in the other, somebody I admire, that I respect?



Laddie is really divine. His presence cheers me up immeasurably. Do I find him irresistible because he seems to find me, chocolates, games equally irresistible? I used to think that, but I can see how we confide without worrying that we will ever think less of one another. The charming premise of our relationship is based on forgiveness, and no years, ability, faith, the vast distance could compromise the silence words I trust. Lately, I¡¯m worried about his sleeping habits. They¡¯ve reversed to suit my schedule/time zone¡­ What if he falls ill again? I don¡¯t like fretting over what I cannot help with. Perhaps it¡¯s my selfish will/struggle for control. I like what Faulkner wrote about time in Quentin¡¯s chapter, how the battles cannot be won, because the battles are not even fought and really it¡¯s just our human follies that simulates a battle. It always reminds me of AI, because the simulation of intelligence, if you get the same results, is considered intelligent, is it not? Then again there is an argument about the journey of life and how it¡¯s really the road you walked that counts not the destination. I heard somewhere is the road there because too many people walk it or the road is there before it¡¯s just that too little people walked it before. Beat that (il)logic, pop culture!



You¡¯re alive, breathing, kicking maybe but alive all the same. This justifies one¡¯s existence, why bother with recognition why the control and proof of your worth? A woman is worth as much as she wants her word to be. I wonder about my online personality from my Real World one. Is it another facet of the undefined me? Nothing distinguishes me, expect sometimes when I get caught up it¡¯s disturbing how much I am bothered by others¡¯ influences on my decisions.



What motivates us? What is my motivation? I have so many questions that even as I find who I am I am merely at the base of an ever-widening funnel of things I want to, and therefore need to understand. I applied for a job placement on campus this year, and hopefully the survey lands me in the Academic labs so I know early on whether biological research is really for me, though I¡¯m fine with working in either one of the libraries, which I know won¡¯t have late night shifts, for the schedule for closing is 10 pm at the latest.



Mrs. Joyce tells me that I have a fertile mind. She gives me 87n my research paper, which made me wonder if I misheard futile, as it is the lowest mark I ever received on a paper. Literary present, better grammar, clearer focused thesis, too ambitious, I agree! And I am off to stage some overdramatic sulking before improving from my present failures. A quote I read and liked immensely was ¡°my reality check bounced¡± on h2g2. Cheers, when I¡¯m 42 I will look back on how immature I was and admit to Mrs Miller how right she had been, and that I do live, as she tells me numerous times, in a jar.



To do list:

History my classmates assigned me pop culture on Monday when I was in NY. Sadly, the first thing I thought of was A Feast of Crows. Chelsea and I are collaborating, though we¡¯re in different groups. I¡¯m slightly chagrined that it¡¯s difficult going with describing the impact Brokeback Mountain has on Americans. Then I must tackle the fun World of Warcraft to which I reckon I¡¯ve already lost one ooc promised to. If I could I¡¯d much rather write about Demons and Wizards and how awesome the Crimson King sounds.



As for Mirrors RP, Sail mistress of Clan Rossaine Ponine will be recruiting a crew for her raker the Lightbringer. I did more research on Shara, thanks to Eleanor and Kristen. They have really twisted politics. Oddly, the most striking feature of how exclusive the Sharan people are is that if you land somewhere in the walled shores you are executed matter-of-factly whether you intended to go or had just been shipwrecked. I think I will write about hanging lamps in a museum, inspired by frequenting the Metropolitan Museum of Arts in NYC.



Evening: I talked to Olie. Actually he asked some questions and I responded - that's talking, right? The thing is, I think I've changed. It used to be I was so nosy about everything, as if I could change and hold everybody accountable to my standards. It's not until recently that it occurs to me that most of my morals aren't really values so much as 1. how useful a thing is to me 2. health & safety. This is, as somebody stated, a philosophy of death. To the demise of individualism, creative innovations, flexibility, cooperative community and other ideals... What are my principles? Why was I so confident when berating others for ruining their lives, as I previously saw it, in my narrow world? Sometimes I should just listen to other voices than the chatter in my mind, where feelings are manufactured. Is the heart a metaphysical Wal-Mart of the body then, in taking credit for what the brain does?



How strange people are. If optimists see black as white, then so be it. Make the whirligig colours stop spinning. The Great Book of Amber : The Complete Amber Chronicles, 1-10 (Chronicles of Amber)
By Roger Zelazny
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This morning I fell off a treadmill. It was the substance commercials are made of, the legs flying, the face down thing. I programmed the speed higher to 7 miles an hour and skinned both knees through my sweatpants when I unwittingly stepped on.

I fault last night a bit. After the ceremony I felt too excited to sleep. I was awarded a scholarship, my high school's Marion Freeman memorial! The school probably spread out these so to cover a great deal of people; Jas and I noted there weren't any purely academic scholarships without extracurriculars, loads of atheletic and service awards... How do students have the time to do all that? Anyhow the two thousand dollars the board of education gave me helps a great deal. It evens out to what Wellesley gave Jas, and now Bowdoin's grants/scholarship/work-study/fed loans cover tuition/room/board et cetera. That's a definite relief. So at this stage I'm only worried about the placement exams. I have not had maths since calculus class the fall of my junior year! Though Mr. Rodgers probably forgot more than I ever learned, it isn't the most reassuring. I stayed up until 4 am and when I woke two hours later my eyes were bloodshot (like that Earthsuit song!) but it was worth a four hour conversation with Chrissy reassuring her about the general confusion in her life. I am so scared. Why are people asking me for advice? My insignificent opinions should not influence others, please.

Despite the lack of sleep last night, I won the debate in history with a surprising 17 for, 6 against. I reckon it's not so much my arguments as the two of us ran out of the allotted time, as my opposition's provocative inaccuracy, though to their credit: they really had a tough position to defend.

Senior picnic is next week. I know this because I was warned to wear my college shirt, a few sizes too large, so I wouldn't have to answer questions about where I am going next year. Only seven more days left of school. I better start reviewing for the finals and finish strong!

Oh on a side-note, laddie has become our new regional UN delegate! I'm very proud of laddie.

A few more points:

I still need to search for my Waiting for Godot play. Must return to Mrs. Joyce before graduation!

Laddie and I stayed up, and reviewed algebra for 3 and 1/2 hours before his maths exam. It's an oral examination, of all things. We joked that he'd pass with flying colours and high marks if he sings. A strong 4 is excellent, right? I never felt more pride when we worked our way through the steps to foil and factor quadratics.

Last night, Christine and I talked for four hours. Most of this conversation centred around her past but as her story was given in confidence it is too private for me to divulge. However, she mentioned that Rene thought I would fall for a guy in a suit, who is shy yet will dazzle me with his intelligence and sweet nature. How sadly incorrect I reckon he would be. First, I am sensible enough not to fall for any man. I'd love to write I am honoured but I don't aim to be a floosie who lies to herself. So - - - Men, zark off.

The World Is Flat [Updated and Expanded] : A Brief History of the Twenty-first Century
By Thomas L. Friedman
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Ego @ Critical Mass
As I munch on a late-night croissant, attentively avoiding my history questions because I wasn't in school today, I wonder if my life isn't a mock epic. Let's tell the story from backwards, as Ged did on the island of Gont in Ursula Le Guin's awesome Earthsea. Hear me, Tenar, oh were that listeners were as patient and wise as the White Lady but instead of listening they keep asking, "how was the banquet?"

I had two guests they are my sister Jas and the AP Biology teacher, Mrs. Miller. I rushed home during lunch and saw Jas in a powersuit, bone-white shade of alabaster, with an otherwise beautiful float of a skirt that seems silmultaneously pure as the clouds and flirtacious. These business women must have some methods of breaking the glass ceiling, I grinned crudely at the amount of leg that Jas revealed. Star however lashed onto me in my happy tirade of ridiculing the shoulderpads and the next thing I knew I was showcasing her precious powersuit. Shoulders and all I felt like I could best Max in my football, but the armour hanging off my frame was pronounce to be cute, and I was settled with the object of my initial amusement, and soon to be detestment. Nevertheless, to please my stepmother who turned out moody enough from being unable to attend despite all the fuss about the rides, the places, the overall contributions and gratitude I should be expressing, though I'll give her this: she did try to be good-humoured, and it's the endeavour that counts, really.

Once Chelsea had us over though, she really put me through the grinder to make my look pretty. Meaning the regular Lily, without the powersuit - which the fashionable discarded as soon as her eyes beheld the unsightly jacket-top that resembled her mother's overbearingly unsophisticated style (only joking Mrs. Petersen! they look quite lovely, on you) - with significantly less facial hair than before what with the eyebrow plunking twizzer the shaving the haircut which left , with whale blubber aka . Eye liner goes below . "It really brings out the colour of your eyes," said Chelsea as she delightfully sprinkles what looks suspiciously like dandruffs, but are actually flakes of glitter. I have pictures. Lily with too much makeup resembles Jonny Depp.

The dinner conversation was excellent and more entertaining than most I'd had. I attribute this to the wit and knowledge of those seated at our table. Mrs. Miller went to a workshop that day and told me about a brainstorming exercise PMI, acronym for Plus Minus and Interesting. Basically you have these three catagories and you - in an allotted time, say three minutes - What about the colour-blind?

Finally I fed my email addiction. 22 emails and tons of posts to catch up on. I am . How am I the UN regional Delegate of EE? Laddie's endorsed me, faugh for favoritism!

Nine more days of school left before final exams and graduation. The Princes of Ireland: The Dublin Saga
By Edward Rutherfurd
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Might and Right
Being excessively fond of arguments even if they get staged with friends, I was engrossed by one today, and how it revealed others' generalisations about the basics of history. The Civil War - it concerned an unprecedented pushing of the lines. "Will I overreach my rights if I withdraw from the Union?" In opposition to the other interpretation "You cannot sucede from the USA unless your voices aren't being heard, and as long as that freedom is guaranteed the civil war settles that the federal government is stronger than states" which still remains a power struggle to this day!

It's all about the economy and more power to the representation, the way I see it when the balance of free and slave states shift with the expansionism movement, what we forget is that there are always changes in Tariffs.

Though you've got to admit the north had superior banking and funds whereas the confederacy was doomed for a great reason, and this reason is evident in the concept behind the conception of its existence: its name. In a confederacy, states have more power than that weak central government, meaning Lee's Army of Virginians are expected to defend the home turf. Then you add in the element of honour, I mean here Longstreet was ahead of his time, Robert why don't we dig trenches? But the Richmond newspapers mocked Lee as King of Spades thereby contributing to early defeat of its notoriously effective army.

What the South could have done is like in all american wars: the catalyst is absolute principle! At the beginning there was a position to withdraw from or defend, but this is the choice. Once the cascade, once over this threshold

We find it necessary to fight in order to defend our rights of neutrality, do you see? We declare ourselves to be neutral but the international law doesn't observe this when we merchants trade arms et cetera.

In particular circumstance of the start of the Civil War: Clay's compromise of 1820 and 50 gave a delay but what happened at Fort Sumner was a deliberation, a premeditated choice to fight on both the Union and Confederate sides.

1. the state of North Carolina pulls out

2. Lincoln doesn't recognize this, so he doesn't withdraw military from bases and forts, such as Sumner. Is it an Occupation? Well, the Carolinians are thinking: let's wait it out

3. Nothing happens for a few months, then the eventual happens. No food is available for the US military, so Lincoln decides to send some supplies down, knowing fully well that he is making the Governor of NC to make a forced decision in response.

We're free from the Union. You have no power over us... How to show this? Stop the supplies by taking the fort.

Lincoln gave him no choce but to seem the aggressor when really if he didn't attack then he is defeated by the ugly rearing beasts of ideology and symbolism, that the Union still send supplies and reinforcements to soldiers who are military occupations, so it's really not stupid for the South to attack.

Their strategy wasn't hopeless or as bleak as everybody might have envisioned, either.

In fact had it not been for William Tecumsah (love that name) Sherman, the South might have very well won their freedom and right to withdraw. Sherman's victory convinced majority of the Union voters to re-elect Lincoln instead of settling for peace advocating presidential candidates.

Settling for peace would be more understanding of the north... at what cost? Any state who's slightly unhappy can say "I don't like this nation, I quit and form my own"

We could have done better on the reconstruction after the Civil War ended though. It's very pitiable. Point is, evil or not it's done: "there is a moment when people will say, I will not do things this way anymore, and this is why everything always changes"

We are told that history repeats itself.

People change, you see. Everything you learn will be wrong in some way.
How long has it been for US as a country - a little blink in the dazed daydream of civilized countries ever since the first hominid drew a line to mark as his? Staggeringly little time.

How many wars in over 230 years? Iraqi, Persian Gulf, Korean, Vietnam, Cold, WWII, WWI, Civil, Mexico, 1812, Independence, French and Indian. At least it's not like the constant battling in China where the way to ascend to power is the kill the bloke who used to be your predecesor. An interesting point concerning our modern world: these webblogs we express our opinions over every aspect of anything, are these too hindersome in that everybody wants their say to be supported, or a true democratic process?

We're quite meddlesome! I better not digress any further. Crime and Punishment
By Fyodor Dostoevsky, Constance Garnett
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Day of Remembrance
And National Bank Day for the UK, if I am not mistaken.

I have taken up a habit of mine, people watching, which isn't difficult to follow as there was a parade through Main Street. Funnily enough, in Maine, the Street was Maine Street. I noticed that while we were shopping.

Incident #1: A woman in a Girl Scouts vest ran past with her two petites in a tow. Come on! She urged them toward a car, a rather impressive mustang-type machine, and the driver grinned under his visor as he pushed open his door to welcome his children. "I'll call you later!" She yelled at an acquaintance across the lot. "Get in the car, honey." Grit, gritted teeth gleaming beneath the visor.

Incident #2: Come along now, Dudley! The man in his smart uniform spoke crisply. This Dudley is scrawny, and cute.

Then I wrote an brief email to Mentor. Here's the exerpt.

Memorial parade was awesome! Fife and Drums marched in their smart quasi-colonial uniforms. Two knights passed us by, with banners that topped the lances. I've fallen for the shining armour, though they must have cooked underneath what with such temperatures. The hats were strewn outrageously with roses, and reminded me of pheasant feathers! The procession had, of course, those who served our country, and these men were enrapturing, with a quiet dignity that struck me more than the percussion that sounded throughout.

Last year it was cloudy but now it's sweltering. I saw and successfully avoided Kyra with her water gun peeking from the edge of her t-shirt! I'd send her to attack you in your shady lounge but, that would involve taking a squirt. Coward that I am, I'd rather not confront the wetness. I think the Aiel had the right idea about sweating it out. Perhaps you could cook something, or soak in another hot shower -better yet - bath.

Have a great time with volleyball. We always had games at our gatherings, and the more people to prevent the ball from going into the pool, the better. Ah, the pool opens today, what a tempting prospect!

End of observations. I'm going back to Rodya and his family. Sylvia Plath: A Biography
By Linda Wagner-Martin
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Vortex is too good a word
When do we know if we're independent, and when are we too selfish? Can one be independent without being selfish? I can be selfish without independence, because I'm taking from others with the expectation that they will give, whereas if I was independent, I think about myself, but am not expecting help from others. Piffles, there can be no true independence from the self, can there... Perhaps that is why we deem all our heroes to be self-sacrifising.



Facts. That¡¯s a word which means something, determined, concise, and stubborn. We have our uncertainties. Freud. Chris asked me why I believe in Freud and "do you have penis envy" to which I quipped "according to my spam box I do" but there is a property concerning the truth that one cannot refute however much you want to there's a strange logic that sometimes seems so simple but nobody's stated before so it's incredible.



Not many people could mishear the lyrics to the extent that I had. As a child, tigers and mice are the issues of contention. Even now, I¡¯ve cultivated a major crisis of selective hearing.



Perhaps people overlook things when they analyze too many details. Impressionist picture. Close up you don't see the overall expression, only flecked paint layers.



I¡¯ve always wondered what I liked about this song. Is it the lyrics, the vocals, the tempo, the violin and other symphonic instruments that just wrapped themselves around? Piece by note, note by words, the time roars by and still I am no closer to divining the enchantment of the music, except that I like it. It grows on me in its intensity. How do I judge art? The worth of a piece is not how much time you spend on it. I might have years of my life writing a book that Hemingway beats out after a night¡¯s drunken stupor. If I had as much talent as Steinbeck has in his one fingernail, I¡¯d be content. This dilapidated tone shocks me. I do depend too much on spellcheck. Ford and I were setting up an alter to worship spellcheck, I wonder whatever happened to that. It¡¯s all fallen apart, as we drift aside. My life is a paper, the paper bags with holes through them that Mrs. Miller gave us for the sugar labs, the ones to do with osmosis that we¡¯d go double check on the internet and still flunk the labs.



She said she¡¯d love to go, I¡¯m excited because I know it¡¯ll be a good time and a better time than if some two others went but now I feel bad and guilty even in this intimacy to admit it, and inwards I know that she knows it¡¯s true too. Sometimes there¡¯s something about rap that you like. I spent so much time being humorous and packing every sense of wit into my dialogue that I appreciate it because it makes a different sort of conversation but I¡¯m afraid it makes nothing positive in that I first do regards others as below me in some sense, or really knowing about myself that I don¡¯t, and I try not to take advantage but I know I can¡¯t help exploiting. Perhaps it¡¯s human nature, eh but no it¡¯s not I know it¡¯s not because I don¡¯t want it to be I do want good things in life everywhere and everything will end up beautiful, why bother I¡¯d bring up because of all the beauty in the world, that really strikes me as how do you argue with it, you don¡¯t it¡¯s like trying to argue the point that the moon doesn¡¯t rise from the east but from the west when really it¡¯s always been there hanging not over but with us as if it too is tolerating our presence but I reckon you don¡¯t really care at all if we exist or not, right? You don¡¯t worry about the meaning of your contributions or how you appear to others. She only wants to be there to represent him because he told her to and she thinks it¡¯s her idea and part of her wants to be acknowledged which I would say thank you, you were here and you did help but it¡¯s not what I want I don¡¯t know what I want but I do know that you can¡¯t always get what you want and that nothing¡¯s as it should be, or then again everything is and this getting stuff off your chest really helps but it doesn¡¯t because of lit class when jas would say something cool and I put on a pasted smile while furiously trying to rein in my thoughts which had wandered elsewhere and the trivia I picked up were not so much for myself as to impress and of course by now you¡¯ve realized that this isn¡¯t what I want either, I bet if you look at all these thoughts I don¡¯t want so much and it¡¯s almost laughable because I do want a lot of things I want to be special I¡¯m so vain I think I¡¯m better or at the very least above average and though I profess to admire a lot of people which I do I don¡¯t really take the time to understand them in depth as if by a layered study which removes the illusions that it¡¯s the shallow my superficiality recognized, or the temporary brief ah so passing by ideas that I¡¯m stricken with and I will never feel too sick though I have my bug bites and the edge of this table¡¯s driving my arm crazy and there¡¯s jas clattering away at the computer deep in thought she sounds like a philosopher I think reading frederich helped but I might as well read dostoevsky but I haven¡¯t started that yet and I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m always so discouraged it used to be I was really ambitious I guess I still have these dreams and hopes I just don¡¯t want to back them up with anything. In this way I realize that I¡¯m quite like these things of shallow content that others want to see the best of me make excuses for my soft slack and I just don¡¯t change in reality letting other influences guide my courses and choose the best of the decisions left to me utterly on the mercies of the recipients and the agents of reactions, not change around me.



Distractions I know I¡¯m distracted by lots of things that don¡¯t really matter in the long run while Jas is preparing for college and future schools and she¡¯ll do great wherever she goes and I suppose so would I but I¡¯m not as sure as the lunch ladies or the teachers that tell me so. I see the looks as if oh what¡¯s wrong with you that you¡¯ve been waitlisted at the same schools and I knew I¡¯m paranoid and I didn¡¯t try that hard but again another excuse to justify why when really I¡¯m not making sense and neither are the other people who go on with their lives just talking and thinking and not really getting on with anything significant except for them. It¡¯s so funny that I want to be published but I know I would never write about anything somebody could possibly want to read about because right away I know it¡¯s too personal and not for me to expose or not even expose really but rub it in as I really haven¡¯t the sense or wisdom for writing about anything but myself and perhaps not even myself as I am a cell or not a cell or not a body but am consuming and trying to prove my worth instead of just being worthy and have the others appreciate me.



Legacies are interesting I used to imagine yeah there¡¯s a lot of great eminent people in our line in the family and there probably are but gran does exaggerate a lot about her side¡¯s feats and I know that there are complications and other things we just don¡¯t want to look too closely at and when we have to it spoils our original expectations and we¡¯re all a character of faubert¡¯s being in love and not liking the lover because he doesn¡¯t fit up that role, and there goes the Grendel argument of having been a misfit in a society that needs such a brute role then again Gardner tries to win the readers sympathies for the creature which was what I¡¯ve tried with mordred or medraut and then I realized it¡¯s not what I want to hear I sometimes just want to be told not shown but instead I take what I am shown and push it away from me as if in expelling rapidly the thing never happened and we quickly move on with our lives through our lives, and in this cyclic regression we would go neurotic which is simply another excuse. Damn the excuses the women who use excuses and words such as damn I of course look down upon. I look down upon olie too but if I ever felt a strong affection it¡¯s for the lad. And the conversation I just came up with goes like this. They tell me to let myself go I say I can¡¯t you say of course you can I say I can¡¯t they are arching the brows and say there¡¯s nothing you can¡¯t do you can if you put everything to it tell me something that¡¯s a can¡¯t and I say I can¡¯t tell you and that was the end of that. This is going too fast but not fast enough I think that I¡¯m trying to escape to something brilliant or evade it by writing and not explaining and maybe even look at these things later on to look for some subconscious things because it¡¯s like staying on a wheel and dribbling paint randomly without a design doing so because you can clack here and pretend you¡¯re writing wonderful things that will make sense to everybody but how can you signify anything it¡¯s a narrow place everywhere is I don¡¯t think if my mind gets any more open I will get fed up and even no hungry for more fuss and everything else that goes with all the horrible things that accompanies human interaction I forgot what I had to say oh wait never mind purpose right if I had a purpose I¡¯d rock on and chose a side and stick with it sometimes I don¡¯t know why everybody says oh yeah she thinks deep she knows things innocence is bliss and I am innocent of my environment because I get all this noise and complications that I don¡¯t decide and in inaction it¡¯s been made out for me anyways, if you don¡¯t move on you still move because even if you stay in the same place the flows do not divert through you they keep running through until there are torrents sufficient to push you through as you cleave yourself inflicting your different standards on others I lived a little died a little and overall the bittersweet emptiness is greatness is pain is the joy of an eulogy that faith cannot be prescribed for me. I have no confidence in you world it¡¯s like writing show not tell they say but sometimes instead of living through all the pain and suffering and joys with the tears in the oceans of grief you think won¡¯t it be better if we know it¡¯s an excellent book that moves us all without ever cracking open and going again and again through the names that fade into letters and sounds in your head with the other voices that I won¡¯t know the meaning of except the author¡¯s purpose and my own designs upon his or her intent. Interpretations they call it and I accept it because people will take and give you what they will and really there¡¯s nothing or everything that is expected and the formula to which most people work it doesn¡¯t matter I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m a coward I¡¯m a crowd and I don¡¯t want to I cannot I have an aversion to the truth that I want desperately for it to exist because it if exists then there will be something in my life to stabilize to have been right on track.



Just because I did something doesn¡¯t mean you have to do anything I return favors I don¡¯t want favors I don¡¯t want people to tell me things I don¡¯t know what I want and figuring it out will that help me I want prestige but my worth oh yes I¡¯m worth about as must as a trust myself which is very little but I don¡¯t want to be somebody else I used to think I do but the good face is neat enough for me and judgments are made and oppositions therefore follow so abiding is all I can do and acceptance of this whole whirling world is what I will live in because the other is not an option I want no why aren¡¯t I like everybody why am I like everybody who is everybody recon they or she or he or it does not know either. There¡¯s much I do not know and much I can¡¯t bear I am sure but it¡¯s not easy she thinks but experience is horribly growing on you like that song that painting that art but am I the artist in appreciation can I create can I innovate can I be adaptable and be me, work on me somebody like a plastic surgery expect it¡¯s hard so not easy to decide to hope to wonder to maybe have regrets what the future has in store for me I don¡¯t know all I know is that there¡¯s a future and that¡¯s mighty worry enough for me.



The words come and go weave and bob like the Salamandastron hares and covert so the fighting¡¯s done by me sure there are others with me but I aye the tension the celebration the little intensive cares of our days nights in between no I want to be better myself I want to distinguish be distinguished to listen to be grateful and therefore it¡¯s connected in mysterious ways. Downs soft and I want; want is need and need is the harsh barks of the strong edges that dulls with time and the choices I made are mine all mine to hoard with responsibility and glory, it¡¯s forever sure is it what I want, maybe I don¡¯t know. There¡¯s a yes it is me and no there isn¡¯t me and so far none has been enough to say yes this is definitely me except perhaps the fool I love the fool I want these marvels for the fool it¡¯s me. You¡¯ll not be disappointing you¡¯re just the way I want you and you will not change in your purpose and I am fulfilled. Because I am fulfilled I cannot create another and now I understand this is still an excuse but a legitimate one because me as a country a sovereign entity acknowledges this trade of love for love for the initial creed. Creed is something that somebody cared about what is it exactly. Standards we went over standards already. Everything¡¯s over already it¡¯s indescribable the fresh mechanisms will go like spoilt milk all the same stuff to the lactose intolerant. Lactase the enzyme, signs of the evil black and the good black of my precious the need the wants the return to all these feelings that I¡¯m not even doing anything worthwhile. Just the uncertainty is the conclusions and I won¡¯t get a feel for moving on to the far away because the close in is not taken and consumed. So that¡¯s why I¡¯m different, that¡¯s why I¡¯m the same and share this settling of scores with everybody this everybody who justifies its hers his existences with the entire grand sounding pretentious hurly burly. Every once a while I try ending this but something in here is indescribable and it won¡¯t let up so I won¡¯t let up it¡¯s only a reaction the set up of the finale that will not be applause. In a play that is not directed or acted yet because it¡¯s supposed to be but not gotten to not played out, and greed of the investors will turn the heads and heads us off to a tangent oh dear I¡¯m worried that the influence sounds grand and I don¡¯t want influence it¡¯s on me.



Listen to me the cry for attention the heads-up the taking care is hideous. You only think of yourself so what I think about myself I think of you but not for you I don¡¯t know what you want why give you the mistakes and all the chances of getting at me with your purposes. In the past you were identified as something a misfit and expectation now you¡¯re something else and you get questioned to remain accountable ah the absurdities nobody¡¯s laughing because it¡¯s flattering yourself even in thinking we¡¯re just flatterers of our manifests. It's when you want your place to change and the environments or adapt to it that the truth isn¡¯t found in strange logic that even the confusing the uncertainty is certain, is the truth, is the possibility that living the details gets selective hearing and there is only acceptance.

You know, when you wake up in the morning and see an entry that big, you tend not to stop and read it all (I've not even had a cup of tea yet!)