I sat in a Swede's kitchen, ate a boy's chocolate cake and talked on the phone to Cute Jake. We are going to build a loving caring relationship, because he's no longer that guy who'll just smooch and run. Hah. I am having the time. I saw so many today. I am forthwith and forward and enjoying. Yes. Life.

I talked with my friend who loves Princeton. They paid her to visit. She watched a three hour Weirmarcht German Silent film, and listened to people making incessant goat jokes. But she loved it. She's ready for college. I'm actually excited about Thanksgiving.

I'm excited about the potentialities of a Swedish manfriend and the boy in the green jacket. Jake. What a great name. I'm rackin up the points.

Who am I today? I watched an R rated movie on Sunday afternoon. And I rejoiced in Colin Firth. Happiness.

"To Bridget - just as she is."


French poetry that I didn't understand but laughed at anyway. That explains it. We tried to talk about the silly looking dancers, but I just laughed my ugly american laugh and they were amused. So was blond ghost, he called and we chatted. I had two bad eclairs, but maybe I just don't like eclairs. Maybe I will make a boy named Jeremy love reading. He's 21.

A girl thinks that the boy in French class looks like Peter Pan. He does. I told her about milk-teeth and she was disgusted. I'm no longer attracted.

Cute Jake looks better with glasses. He listens to the right music, he's my brother in a BYU and mormon-y way. But his voice is irritating. Black plastic glasses, gah. I can't escape that.

A boy in my Native American Studies class says that sometimes he wants to raise his hand and ask for my heathen perspective. He didn't say heathen, but hah.

I get back the 4am papers tomorrow. I have nervousness, as the French would say. Christa went to sleep at 10:20. I am feeling this old woman tiredness because I know I have to get up in the morning. Mourning.

I watched a TV movie about Paul Verlaine and Satanic French aristocrats when I was a junior in high school. It stuck with me. "The Flame Is Love." Oh those turn-of-the-century narratives recreated in 1970s teleplay format. Reincarnation explains it. So do other things.

I applied to be a library girl today. It won't happen. I'm okay with that.

"I like the way we carry on..........."


I am in the middle of a conversation with a ghost of a blond from my past. He has always been in love with the Baptist from my childhood and adolescent days, the girl who braided my hair. He needs to tell her. He is worried. She's a fickle creature, we say. WIll I screw them up by giving bad advice? I'm playing a game with people I hardly know anymore. Here comes a song from the genre/time period we all shared. And am I remorseful for having lost them? I wish they could even be a part of my life here, but there's no room for them here and that is the sad thing. Their kind is gone from my heart, all that is left is remnants of knowledge and things of such import. I take deep breaths and hope I do not end their potentialities. Could I? Is it up to me? She has called him. Things have come to a point. Does she still love him too? Will he forgive me if I hurt his confidence? Can I face the thought of having dashed anyone's hopes? My heart is in aching and my tongue is drying by the centimetre. He talks to her. He is in Nashville. She is in Marshall, Texas. They are in dormrooms. Their roommates are listening in, and they are trying to keep their conversations quiet and private. His heart is caught at the base of his skull, his throat closes. Her heart beats and her skin flushes, she can feel the hairs pulsing at her ponytail. Pleasantries. I am getting sleepy. The suspense is killing me. But they're the ones who will die to each other if things do not go the way. The only way. What is her mood? What is his tone? Can they be smart? Smooth? Will it be a human encounter or will it extend beyond that, will they reach the magical bliss of a romantical love-nirvana? Nirvana is not annihilation. It is merging. Can they?


This is to surprise all that readership out there.

I want to bury the incidents of the redheadedness. I am hoping that hints will be gotten or that interests will wane, because I am ready disciple of no man. I don't want even the halfwayness. I want a clean slate and a chance at something new. We went to the museum, and he barely understood anything I said. We are disparate. It's a kind of illiteracy I cannot abide long. I hid my favorites. I told too many people about this, now they'll ask with expectant looks and I will have to hide my sideways glance, and I will have to explain my fickle bah-ness.

I got a grand slam today. Perfect 100% for the first time in my multiple-choice life. Yay. Three strangers said hi to me, one was even attractive. I should gift to myself some small extravagance for the perfection, but there is no one to share a trip with. Argh for oncampus living. Argh for no car. That might have cured it. But, alas, not so. So maybe I will go it alone, because I can and I like it that way. Hah.

One week ago, I was pins and needles. Now I'm done with that. Next.


You know, you are grand.

I never knew that the Oriental Trading Company would put me at peace, but it did. Something about making fart noises with a frowning green ghost made me feel all warm inside, all ready to face the silliness of this 'house'. My roommate thinks of Spanish as her code language, that's why she spilled my secret. Yeah.

I have such happy friendly feelings toward the human race. They make me warm inside.

Now I'll dream of Caribbean Passion. And maybe Jamba Juice.

Redheads don't deserve the mecca that was uprooted. I'll save that for the pizzazzful, the vimmed and vigored soul kissers. Mmm. May this week end.



Jacob loved to swing better than anything else in the world. If his daddy
said, "You can have a big scoop of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles on
top, or we can go to the park and swing," Jacob would pick the park. No
sweat. He loved the smell of the gravel. He loved the squeak of the chains
on the swing. But most of all, he loved the 'whoosh'. Now, the 'whoosh'
didn't happen on the first couple of swings. Those were just warm-ups. When
Jacob was ready, he said "Faster, Daddy, faster." And Jacob's daddy would
push just a little bit harder, just a little bit faster. But still, no
whoosh. Jacob would say a little louder, "Faster, Daddy, faster!" And
Jacob's daddy would push just a little bit harder, just a little bit faster.
But still, no 'whoosh'. Jacob shouted this time, "FASTER, DADDY, FASTER!"
And Jacob's daddy pushed quite a bit harder, quite a bit faster. And all of
a sudden, WHOOSH! The air blew past Jacob's ears, the swing went so high he
thought he would fly out! He could see all the way to the end of the park as
he whooshed back and forth, and maybe even to the end of the street, and
maybe even all the way to the end of the town! Jacob thought that maybe,
just maybe, he could even see the ocean! Maybe, just MAYBE,, he could see
the edge of the whole world! MAYBE, just MAYBE, if he whooshed high enough
and fast enough, he could see into OUTER SPACE! But just when Jacob thought
he might fly off the swing and into the sky... the swing slowed down, and
the whoosh got quieter, and Jacob's daddy said "It's time to go home now."

Maybe next time.



Well hello my fine fool friend. Where've you been all my life?


I am disconcerted.

It's one of those monumental realization days, when you think things are one way but then as you run an errand you realize they are different. I've been cranky for days and misunderstanding/stood. Everyone's got a problem, and I counted the weight of the world as being on my shoulders. It's not. My moody swinging causes greatest self-involvement. It's psychically ridiculous.

My problems are miniscule and unimportant when compared to those around me. I am of little consequence, comparatively. But bodily can't-help-it-ness constrains me to crying jags and dissatisfaction. I crave removal. I crave restoration. I crave summer school.

How many times can a girl return to the grocery store in one hour? I want to shout to the universe. How many phone calls from friends whose marriages are crumbling thought no fault of their own can one unstable girl field? How many crazed biology students with failing academic records and perky blonde hair and hick boyfriends can a hormonally self-involved girl hang out with? How many sisters can she share a bedroom with during a holiday weekend, and how often can she listen to her older sister's love-starved complaints? HOW LONG UNTIL SUCH A GIRL GOES OVER THE EDGE?

She doesn't.

These circumstances don't warrant her the right to flip out. Just the right to be a bit cranky.

Even when no one wants her to be.


I have slacked. But now I am back. Party on.

I had a cosmic run in with the floor of my childhood grocery store. Aisle 7. Cleaning Products. My muscles are 'strained' and my dignity is 'pulled,' but I survived and that's what matters. The cosmic-ness of this encounter is the conversation I had just had with my father. About just such a linoleum fiasco. Argh.

And so my knee aches.

"But it's not so bad..."

I had another run in yesterday. Not quite so cosmic. I sort of planned it. Yes. Sleeping Under Van Man is alive and well. And he works at the ice cream store that sells bad brownies. And he was glad to see me. And I am besmitten immediately, again. We shall see. (He mimed a tear as I left. Surely that means something???? Bah. I will never know.)

I've been scraping paint off my ancient home. It's a rebirth, if you will. The old, pik, ugly paint is stripped away revealing the naked wood beneath, only to be covered up again by high-powered sprayers. Ob-la-da.

And here I sit, gimp leg and pained shoulders. Trying to jump-start this modus operandi. We shall see.


I am the Invincible Sword Goddess!

My breath is short, because I have been walking up walls and trees and light posts. Or, at least, trying to. In others eyes, I tiptoe up to the object and carefully place my foot. But in my mind? I fly.

Things come together, in my mind. Phases have places, ancient worlds are where my heart belongs. I live each of my lives again, and epoch after epoch I evolve. I identify this small sign here, this odd taste there, as my former homes again making nest in my consciousness. I recognize the spirit's clamped hold on living, I realize the importance of timeless wonder.

I have always been touched by stories of mind and will. Powers that simply come through concentration or channeling of thoughts. Healing without medicine. Warmth without heating. Flying without wings. Is this a principle I picked up 'somewhere else,' and recognize in those works as truth? Is this some high progress? I am awed by the power of the mind. I read a Roald Dahl book once, about Henry Sugar who could see with his mind. The exercise he had to perform was simple. Look at a flame. Look at a flame until you can picture it perfectly. Look at your brother's face until you can picture it perfectly. Look at anything until you can picture it perfectly. Concentrate. That is the theme of the day. I will wake up, and make things clearer and brighter.


A weak goes by and I am sitting in my room that smells and feels of death. I have learned to type by touch, almost. I'm trying, anyway. It's odd how my mind already knows so much of it. There's this distinct feeling of oppression, as though our sicknesses are trying to win a deathly battle against us. She's worse off than I am, her purging is literal while mine is solely in the mind. I try out those mind-heaaling tricks I read about in books I mysteriously cherish. It's a powerful thing, concentration. I don't like lying in this bed, I can almost smell the germs in it. It feels sick to me, warm with body and heavy with sleep. Which is why today I am seeking solace in outside comforts. My life of these days has been filled with confrontations about the precious life we possess. A professor who emotes his world through one image of something that many find sacrosanct. But we live on, and his sanctity is preserved by us, those who identifiedwith him. I have lived in this dark womb for as long as I can stand it. I am rejoining the human race, because it is the best cure for me. Here's what the Dalai Lama said today: "As long as we are on this small planet together, we need human gentleness, human affection." I can't get enough of it, I tell you. And so I leave this den of battle, this training ground (as it has always been for me my place of solitude and reflection) and join the throngs of the healthy, hoping to draw from them their essence. I was reading "The Joy Luck Club" today in the bathtub. I glean a term from Amy Tan. The word, 'jing.' "Not just good, it's something pure, essential, the best quality. Jing is good leftover stuff when you take impurities out of something like gold, or rice, or salt. So what is left - pure essence." It's my new task, to find the jing in my life and in everyone else. Is this foolish? Is it just some inane pedestrian optimism? Perhaps. But the thought is genuine, there's no pretense or two-faced-ness about it. I want the inanity of it all. I want the pedestrian. That's what we all live in. Elitism is not a club for the holier-wonderfuller-better-than-thou. It's for those who won't accept the pedestrian. The inane. The corny, cheesy, predictability of life. That's the good stuff. That's the jing. OH, THE HUMANITY OF IT ALL! THE GLORY AND THE WONDER AND THE TRUTH THAT IS YOUR DAY TO DAY LIFE! REJOICE! YOU ARE A PERSON! TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND DELIGHT IN ALL AROUND YOU! YOU ARE LIVING TODAY, AND TODAY IS LIVING IN YOU! Sound your trump to all those who will hear, and we will find the jing in the far reaches of the earth. Oh, the humanity of it all. Oh, the humanity of us all . . .


The morning was slow, my waking was difficult but peaceful. But when I got to my first interaction-not-pseudo-family, I discovered a mistake I had made. Two, actually. So I sat for a numb hour, full of sorrow and self-pity. Typical studentia. I walked out, dazed. Unsure of the course of the rest of the day. I tried to find something to eat, perhaps to soothe my emotional aches, but no bagel or juice appealed to my distressed spirit. I stumbled blindly to the narrow aisles, seeking solace in titles that proved unfindable. But then, I recognized my angel. A woman, seated behind a desk, staring at a screen. I screamed for help inside, it came out as polite questioning. I didn't want to disturb her important typing. She found my salvation on her glowing square. Self-improvement. Really? Yes. I walked to the place, using my pre-kindergarten songs to show the way. L. For Lama. And there, on the bottom of the shelf, a very humble place of course, was Kundun. My refuge. I sat, cross-legged like a true disciple, and opened the crisp pages. Randomly, of course, trusting an unseen Power to direct my fingers. And there were my answers. Compassion. Ridding oneself of bitterness. Finding peace in suffering. Cleansing the mind of guilt. Looking out for others before myself. My petty anxieties were laid to rest when I considered the broader world. I, too, wish to dispel the sufferings of others. My own sufferings are of minuscule consequence. I stayed there, with His Holiness, for perhaps thirty minutes. Long enough to come into myself again, to overcome the mess I was in. And I headed off to my next class. I told a friend later I had been befuddled and upset in the morning but had miraculously pulled myself out of it. This is not true. The wisdom of a monk I may never meet was the only thing that made that hour bearable. I had little to do with it.


Sometimes I wonder. How did I come to love these people? These girls I did not know, we share a home. A life. We stay up late when we should not, talking about things that are very important. We are comfortable around each other, we can say things that are acceptable nowhere else but in that room, at that time. It smelled of Cucumber Melon, truly sickening but surprisingly familiar. And we talked for only an hour, only a blip on our future-past scale. And I will not remember the things that were said, and I may not even recall the conversation at all, but today it was what I wanted and needed. To feel like a real human, to share hopes and dreams and fears with people who care about them in the same way I care about the characters I chose on my own. I don't worry about how I look, what I say, who I am. I am truly lucky to exist alongside such personalities. Blonde though some of them are, I am thankful. Someone sure knows how to pick 'em.


Perfect. I got it perfect. I remembered it all, and got a perfect. My day floated from then on, I la-di-da-ed my way through other things. Maybe my frustration was unnecessary. Unneeded. Maybe my extra self-actualization payed off. But I did walk around in a cloud of ma vie en rose. And it was good.
I am struggling with my own middle child today. Its presence in my walking home was startling and uninvited, but it still creates a struggle. Should I? Or not? I do not and cannot know.
The god of my idolatry is in my dear friend's ward. Mmm. His name is archaic, but adorable. And his eyes sparkled today as we shared a joke. It's all about Sean Connery. He grins at me, it's the highlight of my life. Mmm. Danni didn't say much about him, she was surprised that I reacted to his presence in her directory in such a manner as I did. But I cannot help myself. He makes me swoon in my heart. Mmm. It's all a fantasy, but that's not unprecedented. I'm having fun, anyway. (Besides, who can resist those blue eyes and gangly legs and prominent nose[yes girls, he has the nose] and the brownish hair and the sensuous voice and the full lips and can you get what I'm getting at? Get it. Got it. Good.)


I really have decided that males can be enjoyable. A short, redheaded absolutist bought me a root beer float and a box of multi-flavored recipe-able happiness. The two specimens had contests of masculinity with tape on their mouths and we all laughed. Today I have no trash to kick. And so yet again I sit here and deny responsibilites. As always. The pattern doesn't end.
I enjoy this multi-flavorism. It's variety, and it's fun. So I create fantastical concoctions, most of which I cannot name. Sizzling Pear. Bubble Punch. Et cetera. My life contains such multi-flavors. You can figure it out. The Roadie. The Beatnik. The Rock Star. The Hippie. And the list shall go on. And on. As soon as I make it. And no doubt, I'll make weird combinations, and I won't be able to name them, but it will be a box of variable veritable multi-flavored recipe-able happiness. And I will love it. Because it is mine. Or it will be.


But before I begin any expressed thing, let me pause for a moment to recall that which cannot be related.
Now that that's over, I should say that I walked through a cloud of smoky asianity to get to a subpar burrito with a dramatic woman. But this was awhile ago.
I dreamed three times last night. One was someone else's vision, the other was a surreal interlude, and the third was very common REM.
i have spent half a semester drawing in a class.
I am sated with beauty today, I could require no more. And yet I continue. La vida is my holy land, my mecca. I revel in my living. and the wonder of it brings me to every abundant thing.


And so my introspection ceased for a moment, but it has now resumed in the face of many academic responsibilities. So I shirk. Now you know. I have spent two hours with delightful slowness, and I have eaten soup from bread, and I have erased entanglements. Yes, I have gotten to 'the point.' I have a list, for my buddies, and now there is one less. Am I proud? Completely. A strange knowing crept over my supine form in the wee small hours. And as I rose at the hour of ten to greet my day's challenges, I fell into a pattern all too familiar. I clicked the button, I became available for conversation, and there was the non-buddy, his name greeting my bleary eyes. What could I do? And I knew. I did not have to do anything anymore. The tab was there, the change making itself as available as I was, and I clicked my opportunity. "Delete Buddy"? How could I do it? The scraps and remnants rebelled. But my novel genesis knowing was strong, it was sure. I trust the newness, a gut and a gumption I have not before posessed. Delete. My world is all of a sudden much less complicated.


Today I had no regard for toes. I made delightful flipping and flopping sounds all over my small concretely frozen world, and my feet pinked at the experience, but I was observing my holiday. Today is Flip-Flop Day. The making of these days was an experience to calm me, I joined a couple of nuttily normal females and we designated the rest of our time. So this was our first true exercise of it, and we all remained faithful to our ideals, frozen members disregarded. And now I will go to my favorite womb, and I will immerse myself in scald, and my toes will thaw with large complaints, and I will read and splash myself into that which we call a 'weekend'. No, no. It is a week-beginning. I'll begin it right.


The articles are still not repaired. i make the same mistakes. French oral exam just sounds dirty, she said. I could agree. It's a dirty business. Nobody's got to do it. I've been fishy lately, dreamed about a cosmetic surgery of sorts, woke in many different states. I feel picked and put and dumped upon. And the day's not half over. But my maudlin meanderings are no match to the ones that came before. I lost them, in a thoroughly Jo-like fashion. I talked about ducks, and wickedness, and perversity. I realized the real problem, and i expunged. I used the words "tiny limping daemon", totally perfect. i wanted someone to hurt. and i woke up, and read the words, and realized my bitter ang-rality. my non sattvic responses to unaugmentarizing episodes. and i thought of the ya professor. "We are all foreign or at home in ways we didn't expect." I want the profundity of that in my head. So i wrestled with these midgets, and i scurried away from the real dragons, and i barfed my repulsive reactions onto this non-paper. and so it goes, we deal with our realities in odd and wonderful ways, realizing the ridiculousness of it all. our own profundity becomes clearer and cleaner. And we rave. And rave. And rave.


I have a laser headache. We jogged about on the streets of the big city, rushing to appease the god of meters. We put on fantastic glasses to see the marvels of modern technology, it was a masterpiece. The fantastic glasses augmented the evening in many entertaining ways. I plan to make a 3D film about Denny's. It'll happen, mark the words.
* * * * *
Woke up to thoughts of sister. Scrambled for transport and then went to retrieve her. She was wearing the same clothes she had on last time I saw her. "They've been washed," she reassured. We went, we ate, we discussed. I showed her off to all my sparkling friends. And now she sleeps on my bed, rubbing her feet together like a little kid. My, but family is great. Weird. Great.


Today is D-Day for me. On a Thursday to boot. Thursday is the bane of my existenz. She comes today. The man's woman. And she'll sleep on my sofa, and awkward my weekend, I'm sure. I feel like a rantgrrl, but it's insanity. And the sister will be here too. Mayhaps she'll keep me sane. Wait, what am I saying. i don't know which part is funnier: thinking she'll keep me sane or thinking i was sane in the first place. Twist. few hours to go. I need some sin juice. chillout. ya.


It is a great experience. Listening to a radio show that was played last year, broadcast from Chicago, recorded in France and in New York, and I, a girl from Texas, am listening to it in my dormroom in Utah. Listening about a life completely different from mine. A gay male's perspective of living in Paris. That's SO not me. I'm cleaning my room, which has not been done since I've been back here. I'm discovering an archaeological marvel: the debris of a month. Wrappers from things I didn't even recall I had. Ludicrositë. The bobbing PeeWee is staring at me, as I sit at my life-raft listening to the fantastically foreign/international recording. And I feel the need for some processed aquatic food flakes. Does this make sense? I didn't think so. Diamond-esque. Fatty suits. Physicality. That doesn't make sense either. To you. But that's not what this is about. Is it?


I sit amidst something stark, a landscape filled with the not-so-impressive. The decor is very cheesy, bedspreads exude girlishness that mocks the masculinity of their possessors. And I feel alight with flirtatiousness, as if i will fulfill what they expected at first. So teasing. I feel power, I feel beauty, and it is dangerous but satisfying. The environment does not scare me as much as I thought, i don't feel at risk. So I play on with my tease-ish friendliness, ignoring their intentions completely. I'll leave before it gets too interesting.

I sit now at the computer, delaying all vestiges of homework and the like. It's a vicious thing. So I sit, then. Not wanting to stop. Knowing i must. the roommate wants to know what she should do about balancing the several men in her life, and i try to figure out one at a time. and here i am delaying again. so i will go, and deny all involvement with this blogging thing, this triumph of slacked-ness. because i am lazy. because i am tired. because i can.


It is a sad sad day when one does not do what one should. It is a sad sad day. Skipping classes is like squandering money. Wasteful. Even for those of us who can say 'at least i dont have to pay for it'. and whose parents agree. the mean girl took the good dryer tonight. i oughta throttle her. she's annoying. so what was today/yesterday? workful. stressless. irritating. tiresome. enlightening. blah. film-y and good. and now i rest. or try to. and hope i do not dream of fish. they wish.


monday monday.
La la, la la la la.
just another manic monday.
oh, ooh oh.

a humble beginning to a day. mistakes.
next, boredom.
next, utter raging against the dying of the light.
bright shining moments of dithering.

and now a foreign man is taking me to dinner. my life is complete.

I paraphrase John Lennon, "i don't believe in RVs. I just believe in me." After all, he was the walrus. I could be the walrus, I'd still have to bum rides off people.

i woke up thinking about the f word. odd dreams.

I have lots to do. it's not getting done. that's my life in a pathetic nutshell.

no, this is my life in a nutshell: help, i'm in a nutshell. how did i get into this nutshell. please, wont someone let me out of this nutshell.

et cetera.

down with the UTAs!


The good things about being me:
I fulfill a dream in one afternoon, and see two somewhat-famous people.
I get a great deal on 'sin juice'.
I stay up late to blah on paper, and i blah until there's nothing left, and it is good.
I nosh the wackiest stuff.
I know the ya.
I have a secret stash of candy bars, and this is completed and highly complemented by the aforementioned sin juice.
I have three of the magic pens.
I take forrester's advice.
I have strange cosmic destinos experiences with charity.
I am utterly bemused. Though I'm not sure what that means.
I can blah the ya and forget the ow.
I can fall in the memory of warmth in cold.

Yesterday's sound was ahh. Think about it. Encompassing. And I'm only beginning.


It's the eh sound, really. It means a lot to me today. Pretzel. Fresca. Mezzanine. Those are the words. I'm going to find Forrester tonight, I hope he's not hiding someplace difficult to reach. I am unwieldy. My roommates are hungry hungry hippos. I'm not hungry. Just a quadruped. I wish I was a quadruped. I wish I had un-opposable thumbs. I wish my archaeology professor talked about opposable thumbs. I wish I had my shoes back. I wish I had the power of one. I wish I knew all the 'ya', ever. I wish I never knew what hit me. But I know what hit me. A beach ball. Hard enough to make my nose bleed. I wish I was certain about the spelling of the word quadruped. Then I would be queen. That's all anybody ever wished for.


Here's my confession of the day. I have committed the sin of articles. C'est français, et c'est difficile. My les and las and des and dus are confused. I'm cruddy. Today is humility day. Failure after ego-sucking failure. And I haven't even started the day yet really.

I rebel against my surroundings, I refuse cosmetical assistance. I walk my renegade legs around the clean-shaved world of conform. I prenez le (or is it la?) temps for this spiritual insight, and delay the responsibility I should recall. And I plan on doing it again every hour, on the hour.


I do not know how to teem correctly. I walk around with the masses, trying to maneuver myself to where i need to go, but no. No teeming for me. I was not meant for large crowds. I have no sense of personal boundaries, i am awkward and knock things over. And I am antibackpack, though my situation forces me to endure them. down with the pack. It's not my fault I was born with a bad sense of group. I cannot help it. Cursed to live a life of frightening sidewalk encounters.