power in my fingers.
the book room of my dreams exists!
somewhat in my professor's grand grand office.
its grand and humble and has the worn torn leather chair with the innumerable piles of books and the stuffed animal owl and stuffed wild thing. and pictures of his kids and real dictionaries, shelves and rows and stacks of books.
it exists it exists!
if i could steal away his place.
his place his place his place. a place of my own. my pretend place.
place.
my obsession.
lord.
je souhaite arreter mes mains et ma bouche!!!!!!!
mes mains et ma bouche. ARRETEZ. MAINTENANT! POUR JAMAIS!
you are.. my family tree. be good to me. take care of me.
ba ba.
ba ba.
i am indeed sick like nietzsche says.
where is my place? where is my place?
well?
?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
figure me
humanity. accept the frame of your being. embrace the grace that is God within you, and there you might find peace. Because we know how weak we are. We're often scared to admit it. We try to build up empires, conquering places, making wars and filling pieces of paper that prove a piece of property as belonging to us. It never does. We have so little... yet the temporal sense holds us together in a way we probably take for granted. It keeps us united.
I know I'm going to be flawed! I am flawed!
Accept!
Change the things that you can, leave the things you cannot, have the wisdom to know the difference.
I would rather be flawed together, falling together now, than alone.
Together we fall now. Together we fly forever if we embrace the God in us.
Lately it's more clear to me than ever that the only one I have to make proud is God. If I can fulfill his smile, my happiness unfolds a thousand times. It's such a simple gift of joy! And yet, giving into my human weakness can take it away from me! We pretend that shying away from God is sufficient. It is not. It balls up and tears our soul down from the inside out.
To make Him smile.
I pray for grace in all my mistakes.
I know I'm going to be flawed! I am flawed!
Accept!
Change the things that you can, leave the things you cannot, have the wisdom to know the difference.
I would rather be flawed together, falling together now, than alone.
Together we fall now. Together we fly forever if we embrace the God in us.
Lately it's more clear to me than ever that the only one I have to make proud is God. If I can fulfill his smile, my happiness unfolds a thousand times. It's such a simple gift of joy! And yet, giving into my human weakness can take it away from me! We pretend that shying away from God is sufficient. It is not. It balls up and tears our soul down from the inside out.
To make Him smile.
I pray for grace in all my mistakes.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Strutting In Nothing/Everything
Arabella Street, or at least the part stretching from Magazine to St. Charles, is indeed an interesting stretch of pavement. The stories mostly found crumbled, I'm sure, in the unusually bland cemetery across from a very charming grocery store. Along this walk, I chose to investigate the grocery store, the persona of a family-run local market called Langenstein's. It packed a lot of the good stuff - including local ice creams, which upon catching my eye made me completely forget about checking whether or not they had the yogurt variety that Winn Dixie so graciously and expensively offers. Something about groceries, especially small ones, is very comforting to me. Knowing that there is indeed a little niche of the world that always restocks my favorite and potential favorite foodies, even if I cannot actually cook or bake them, puts my overworking mind at rest. Perhaps this is due to my emotional eating tendency, but if it is, at least that's one nice release about loving to eat. It gives back like that.
The houses ascended to greater heights and even more massive hedges as I approached St. Charles from Magazine. The streets were in true Uptown fashion, up and down with the roots of the oaks. I spotted a magnificent spider web stretching from a palm tree to another overgrowing yard, and it seemed miraculous how such a fragile sheet of silk could survive to become the size of a full grown pumpkin! Even with the rain!
Oh the rain. The rain deters but does not dictate where I go. I ran straight across Tulane's campus from Willow to my dorm, becoming completely drenched, leaving my backpack open, yet miraculously finding my laptop to be completely dry. The other night, upon an evening flood, the rain stopped and the moon glowed out and the lightning flashed more than I had ever experienced in a single night. The whips of light were incessant; I felt eerily small trudging through the small rivers created on Freret and the academic quad. Umbrella overhead, snow boots (that double as my rain boots) afoot, and the strange, fluctuating sky that I felt was more comforting than threatening guiding my way. Three flights of stairs and class was cancelled for the fifth time, but I still felt better for braving the foreign land.
Still wishing that I could be excited about being where I am. I resist every environment I come into. Part of that was answered by Sophie Ward, who always seems to reach out into my heart and pull out the words that it needs to read. The changing bits of life are what make us frustrated and relieved, and striving for finding an ultimate place to establish peace is almost too ridiculous, for we always look to a new place even once we've settled. But perhaps that is just my youth feeling this need to get out. To get out get out get out I crave it.
I crave it.
Yet let me know that the journey is just as important as the destination.
The houses ascended to greater heights and even more massive hedges as I approached St. Charles from Magazine. The streets were in true Uptown fashion, up and down with the roots of the oaks. I spotted a magnificent spider web stretching from a palm tree to another overgrowing yard, and it seemed miraculous how such a fragile sheet of silk could survive to become the size of a full grown pumpkin! Even with the rain!
Oh the rain. The rain deters but does not dictate where I go. I ran straight across Tulane's campus from Willow to my dorm, becoming completely drenched, leaving my backpack open, yet miraculously finding my laptop to be completely dry. The other night, upon an evening flood, the rain stopped and the moon glowed out and the lightning flashed more than I had ever experienced in a single night. The whips of light were incessant; I felt eerily small trudging through the small rivers created on Freret and the academic quad. Umbrella overhead, snow boots (that double as my rain boots) afoot, and the strange, fluctuating sky that I felt was more comforting than threatening guiding my way. Three flights of stairs and class was cancelled for the fifth time, but I still felt better for braving the foreign land.
Still wishing that I could be excited about being where I am. I resist every environment I come into. Part of that was answered by Sophie Ward, who always seems to reach out into my heart and pull out the words that it needs to read. The changing bits of life are what make us frustrated and relieved, and striving for finding an ultimate place to establish peace is almost too ridiculous, for we always look to a new place even once we've settled. But perhaps that is just my youth feeling this need to get out. To get out get out get out I crave it.
I crave it.
Yet let me know that the journey is just as important as the destination.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Project: Get Happy Now
So I've come to the realization that I have been, quite flatly, immature. I almost would say as immature as a little whining brat, but the legitimateness of the frustration I have felt has seemed more complicated to me than really really wanting to stay on the monkey bars for an inconceivable amount of more time, but maybe not. I've figured out a way to channel these surges of frustration through jogging mostly in Audubon Park- a kaleidoscope of lives circling a track, from the creatures great (giant, wooly mammoth mutts) and small (a hawk literally descended in a swoop from a tree stage right to stage left). And this is good. Very good.
But I feel that I can dig down deeper into the gold mines around me that I take for granted. Adventures await beyond bars and beer and broken glass. Arabella Street, for example. I've always had a fascination with it. It glows with magic at the dusty corners of Magazine. Have I done any more than peer down and cross? No! With the tools I have at hand, I feel compelled now to use all this gurgling energy not to choke me but to fuel me around my town. I've always depended on other native New Orleanians to take me this way and that. Well now I don't want to be ashamed when I cannot tell my roommate how to get from A to B. I want to sketch a map of everywhere I've gone, know its heart, shake its soul, by writing it through to you.
A project is in the making in my veins. A sense of grasping all the wonder of the moment in its time, in the infinite vastness that moments will keep coming. This gives me hope. This simple joy in discovery.
But I feel that I can dig down deeper into the gold mines around me that I take for granted. Adventures await beyond bars and beer and broken glass. Arabella Street, for example. I've always had a fascination with it. It glows with magic at the dusty corners of Magazine. Have I done any more than peer down and cross? No! With the tools I have at hand, I feel compelled now to use all this gurgling energy not to choke me but to fuel me around my town. I've always depended on other native New Orleanians to take me this way and that. Well now I don't want to be ashamed when I cannot tell my roommate how to get from A to B. I want to sketch a map of everywhere I've gone, know its heart, shake its soul, by writing it through to you.
A project is in the making in my veins. A sense of grasping all the wonder of the moment in its time, in the infinite vastness that moments will keep coming. This gives me hope. This simple joy in discovery.
Monday, September 7, 2009
How did I get here?
I can hardly believe I once saw New Orleans gilded with gold. The surface melts away, melts away. I literally felt as if my eyeballs were being ripped apart by a fork, zig-zagging and pulling down and out of my head. The inanity of it all. Freshman college life in the Big Easy. Who could've imagined a more perfectly raucous and all tomfoolery forgiven place to sign your soul away to beer, drugs, sex, "freedom?"
I'm resisting it all, feeling crushed, mutilated, insignificant, lost.
I crave something deeper. I truly believe that I just want to love. I want to love the place I'm in, to smile at the girls walking down to the community hall bathroom. No such love allowed within the bitchiness hierarchy etched in the female bones at the beginning of time. I want to love our football team, to cheer them on no matter how many field goals attempted and failed, no matter if the most exciting parts are just getting a "First down... Tulane!" No such love with the deadened dreary faces, sitting frames slumped into stadium seats... just me and my precious roommate standing up. If I sit down, I give up on them. And the students just don't care. I want to love the city I'm in- all her charms and gumbo of personalities and talent. But all the freshman class seems to pin to their chests and mouths are the cups and bottles and glasses of alcohol and stickering about five bars each night, every night. I want to love so badly...
Perhaps the only way I can love here, right now is by forgiving them all. I've turned my eyes and throat to God, asking him why I'm here, why didn't I fly away from here when I've cursed the chains I've had on me in my home since I was about eight years old. It was because I wanted to love. But does love have its limits? I don't think so. Wherever I am, I can love.
Let me love!
I'm resisting it all, feeling crushed, mutilated, insignificant, lost.
I crave something deeper. I truly believe that I just want to love. I want to love the place I'm in, to smile at the girls walking down to the community hall bathroom. No such love allowed within the bitchiness hierarchy etched in the female bones at the beginning of time. I want to love our football team, to cheer them on no matter how many field goals attempted and failed, no matter if the most exciting parts are just getting a "First down... Tulane!" No such love with the deadened dreary faces, sitting frames slumped into stadium seats... just me and my precious roommate standing up. If I sit down, I give up on them. And the students just don't care. I want to love the city I'm in- all her charms and gumbo of personalities and talent. But all the freshman class seems to pin to their chests and mouths are the cups and bottles and glasses of alcohol and stickering about five bars each night, every night. I want to love so badly...
Perhaps the only way I can love here, right now is by forgiving them all. I've turned my eyes and throat to God, asking him why I'm here, why didn't I fly away from here when I've cursed the chains I've had on me in my home since I was about eight years old. It was because I wanted to love. But does love have its limits? I don't think so. Wherever I am, I can love.
Let me love!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Fin de l'ycee
C'est tout!
Bien... Pas vraiment...
Mais je sais que le temps est pres du fin.
Desolee, j'ecoutais de la musique francaise.
The bottom of my feet feel as if those weird blood-sucking creatures, not slugs... leeches, would suck at my sore patch every time I contact a piece of ground. As if they were all thriving just bellow the surface, mouths open wide, in abeyance for my vulnerable creep through my house. Heels higher than 3 1/2 inches should come with a disclaimer that describes the omnipotence of these little buggers after wearing them to two proms.
Two final proms, one single night.
The Foundry trumps all. Second lining the band out the door. Under twinkling stringed lights. Bellow sleek stone, somehow more comforting and receptive than a wooden linoleum dance floor.
More creative diversity there.
Fabrics, bodies, feet.
Soft chiffon around mine. Occasional cold spurts of spilt-drinks puddles (inevitable).
We had a place there, in that New Orleans night. Everyone has a place in New Orleans. Magnificent. Even a child having dinner about midnight at Emeril's, down the Street between St. Joseph's and Julia Street. Soft, warm air from a vent blows through glass-strewn streets and parking tickets.
To forget the little imperfections would to forget the unique blend, the reality and mysticism of a warm, warm, shaken New Orleans night.
Don't we always have to have some sort of burden hanging over our heads to make things real? Can complete bliss ever be 100% real? Can we accept that total surrender to the will of the universe? We desperately struggle to keep some kind of control, some sort of reservation, to prevent a surreal happiness from taking over our "controlled" little worlds.
So, for me,
Race me to the finish line. Pound my brain against a desk with a #2 pencil as a scutcher to keep it pinned there. Let my empty skull knock around some others like a bowling ball against the pins on graduation day. Maybe I'll make a nice enough striking sound to appease the audience, or, at least, me and my loved ones. I take that back. They'll be overwhelmingly beaming just seeing me stand on the stage. It's between me and You, God. It always was, is, ever.
http://www.deezer.com/track/131237
Bien... Pas vraiment...
Mais je sais que le temps est pres du fin.
Desolee, j'ecoutais de la musique francaise.
The bottom of my feet feel as if those weird blood-sucking creatures, not slugs... leeches, would suck at my sore patch every time I contact a piece of ground. As if they were all thriving just bellow the surface, mouths open wide, in abeyance for my vulnerable creep through my house. Heels higher than 3 1/2 inches should come with a disclaimer that describes the omnipotence of these little buggers after wearing them to two proms.
Two final proms, one single night.
The Foundry trumps all. Second lining the band out the door. Under twinkling stringed lights. Bellow sleek stone, somehow more comforting and receptive than a wooden linoleum dance floor.
More creative diversity there.
Fabrics, bodies, feet.
Soft chiffon around mine. Occasional cold spurts of spilt-drinks puddles (inevitable).
We had a place there, in that New Orleans night. Everyone has a place in New Orleans. Magnificent. Even a child having dinner about midnight at Emeril's, down the Street between St. Joseph's and Julia Street. Soft, warm air from a vent blows through glass-strewn streets and parking tickets.
To forget the little imperfections would to forget the unique blend, the reality and mysticism of a warm, warm, shaken New Orleans night.
Don't we always have to have some sort of burden hanging over our heads to make things real? Can complete bliss ever be 100% real? Can we accept that total surrender to the will of the universe? We desperately struggle to keep some kind of control, some sort of reservation, to prevent a surreal happiness from taking over our "controlled" little worlds.
So, for me,
Race me to the finish line. Pound my brain against a desk with a #2 pencil as a scutcher to keep it pinned there. Let my empty skull knock around some others like a bowling ball against the pins on graduation day. Maybe I'll make a nice enough striking sound to appease the audience, or, at least, me and my loved ones. I take that back. They'll be overwhelmingly beaming just seeing me stand on the stage. It's between me and You, God. It always was, is, ever.
http://www.deezer.com/track/131237
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Frozen at Intersection
IwillariseandpraiseJESUS for the passover of the storm, the sparing of our home, and my senior year.
Now "I willa" just have to "arise" to actually finish what I've started, namely, my senior year.
Hmmm, let's see. I'm a bit distracted by my sister singing her own version of the Sound of Music's "Doe a Deer" song, translated to fit her geometry lesson.
Now is a time to scratch things out and start anew. New approach to college essays, new off-the-wall "burning question" topic that won't have me drooling over my keyboard as I research, new way to avoid stress (aka, not eating bowls of cereal after dinner in order to postpone concentrating on the abstract mountains of work ahead of me). I suppose blogging will become my bowl of Pops and peanut butter Puffins. Or, as my mom suggested, a mile on the treadmill might do the trick. But how I adore the convenience of a sedentary lifestyle!
The most current goal of my life is to find that creative research paper topic. There are no limits, except to argue in light and respect of the Catholic Social Teachings followed by my Catholic, Blue Ribbon school of excellence and brainwashed females. I don't tend to hoist the anarchy against my religion anyway, so it shouldn't be a problem.
Architecture, design, Columbia, quirky homes, graphic artists' escapades, Seven Centuries of Verse, 91.5 FM courtesy of Tulane...
these are the quirks of my mind, to what argument do they beg?
Please, inform me, mass unknown that is the random internet procrastinator, treasure hunter, pedophile, human viewer: WHAT SHOULD I WRITE SIX PAGES OF WORDS ON WITHOUT BORRING MYSELF TO DAISIES?
You thought I was going to say death.
Now "I willa" just have to "arise" to actually finish what I've started, namely, my senior year.
Hmmm, let's see. I'm a bit distracted by my sister singing her own version of the Sound of Music's "Doe a Deer" song, translated to fit her geometry lesson.
Now is a time to scratch things out and start anew. New approach to college essays, new off-the-wall "burning question" topic that won't have me drooling over my keyboard as I research, new way to avoid stress (aka, not eating bowls of cereal after dinner in order to postpone concentrating on the abstract mountains of work ahead of me). I suppose blogging will become my bowl of Pops and peanut butter Puffins. Or, as my mom suggested, a mile on the treadmill might do the trick. But how I adore the convenience of a sedentary lifestyle!
The most current goal of my life is to find that creative research paper topic. There are no limits, except to argue in light and respect of the Catholic Social Teachings followed by my Catholic, Blue Ribbon school of excellence and brainwashed females. I don't tend to hoist the anarchy against my religion anyway, so it shouldn't be a problem.
Architecture, design, Columbia, quirky homes, graphic artists' escapades, Seven Centuries of Verse, 91.5 FM courtesy of Tulane...
these are the quirks of my mind, to what argument do they beg?
Please, inform me, mass unknown that is the random internet procrastinator, treasure hunter, pedophile, human viewer: WHAT SHOULD I WRITE SIX PAGES OF WORDS ON WITHOUT BORRING MYSELF TO DAISIES?
You thought I was going to say death.
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