Fucking Untitled, maybe.

On Tuesday I realized that I was sick. I hadn't noticed, really, until Laura came and I realized that I was sniffing every few seconds. I felt young, nervy, quipping; I acted oddly, felt ape-like, distant, ugly. The night before I'd felt so beautiful, but in the morning I was filled with headaches and muscle aches and purple eyes and such. And Laura was so sweet, forgiving me for everything, brushing hair from my eyes and making me feel like her mother and her little girl at the same time. And we wore these beautiful vintage dresses, relics of an age when people had pride, maybe, when they waltzed and made brownies in their ovens and watched TV in black and white, which is so much more beautiful. I'm sorry if I'm not very coherent; I can't tell how this will read in the morning. I'm tired and I can't see and my head hurts and I want to see Harry and I want to sleep, but I just can't. Sleep that knits the ravelled sleeve of cares has abandoned me temporarily, and I'm alone and painfully conscious and awake.

And Laura was so tender, sweet little waist and big eyes, and it was crystalline and I wanted to say everything and then be silent. Instead I zipped the back of a dress, admired a shoe, ate pizza, sifted through old receipts and ticket stubs in search of a metrocard. And suddenly I'm home, watching sad, lilting movies and then she's gone and I fall exhausted into bed, guilty because I didn't take out my contacts, because I'm not sure how I've been acting.

And the next morning I wake up early and Mom is bugging me about something, but I'm not sure what, and I agree to something, and I'm dizzy and can't really walk and I wonder dimly what I've said I'll do today. And then I remember that I don't have any plans, and so I take a shower and peer in on the Blogger world and wonder what to write about. I don't write anything. Oona calls and I'm glad because I've missed her, and I hope that I'm not as sick as I was the day before, even though I still can't really breathe through my nose.

I get lost on the way over and show up late, and when I walk in I realize that I'm in the house I've always wanted to live in, the cozy abode where anything goes, where zeppelins and red velour set the rules and children paint things and aren't scolded and light pours in and there's sweet coffee and clothes everywhere and Oona is radiant, golden, a little nervous, maybe, and we read things, and I read her poems and can't think of what to say about them because I love them and I'm not sure why. I read them again and the voice emerges, wistful and sad and maniacally happy, savory and sweet, youthful and old, and I don't even know where to begin. We bullshit a paper and go outside to enjoy the sun, talk about life, careers, love, the weather.

Suddenly Oona gets a text and it's very serious, and Amanda and Daphne and Peter are there and It's so very grim, and we all hug each other and I realize that I've missed them even though we're not really as close as we might be. And we end up in twos and threes, light conversations like the warm air, and then it's Peter and I behind everyone else and he tells me the whole terrible story and I've never seen him so grim, never heard his voice so low or seen his eyes so dull and sharp. And I feel terrible about the whole thing, but there's only a name in my head, no face, so it's Ok, somehow. There are more people, and an avacado milkshake, and lots of chocolate cake and I'm nervous again and feel ugly and have nothing to say. I leave because I imagine that my mother's waiting for me.

When I get home, though, she's not there, and I'm sitting on my bed watching Renata and Harper play some computer game or other, and I'm shaking because I think I remember his face, I think I remember having a conversation once, when I was lonely, and he was kind and very smart and very angry and wistful and sad, and suddenly I'm bawling, shaking and crying and hating myself because I have no right to cry. Because I didn't know him, I wasn't there, he didn't know who I was or why we made him a monster or that he wouldn't wake up, and I imagine his last moments, imagine someone opening the door, imagine his parents and his family and everyone stoned and terrified and I wish I'd been there to stop it, to open the door first, to hold him and keep him safe, and I'm everybody's mother and my babies are gone and it's terrible.

Then my own mother comes home, and she didn't remember, or didn't care, and she's three hours late and she's mad at me for not doing something, filling out some papers or other, and my head hurts and I can't really see and we're yelling at each other across the room and I keep thinking I'm going to collapse, and we're getting farther and farther away from each other and my throat hurts and I fall into a chair and cry, and she's still mad and thinks I'm heartless and vile and I feel heartless and vile and soon I've told her everything and I wish I hadn't. We're so different now. We don't know each other any more, don't understand where we're coming from any more, and I'm not the little girl who wanted Barbies and pink dresses and she's not the one who held me and gave me black Italian clothes and talked about spring. And then my dad calls, and he knows too, and I wonder if I told him or if she did. It's all a blur. My head hurts so much. Suddenly the house is empty and I sit there, not feeling anything, and then I'm crying all over again, and everyone's back again and I leave to buy ice cream. The ice cream tastes shitty. I try to laugh at Simpsons episodes and I feel bad about making everyone depressed but mostly I feel bad about telling them, about giving someone's life away so I won't seem stupid or vile, about how stupid and vile I really am. And Elena calls and I remember that I haven't called her in two weeks, even though she's called me lots of times, and I want to hold her but she's far away and I'm crying again and she understands, and it's the same thing that happened two weeks ago but it's the other way around, and I think how nice it is that we've got someone to turn to and who we know will always, always listen, always have a shoulder and a sleeve and a sofa and a phone and a pair of shoes or the necklace that will save us when we're drowning at some wedding or other.

I go to bed but I can't sleep. I want Harry to be there, the lithe, thin chest to lean against, the strong arms and tender face to shield me while I cry again, while my sister sleeps and I try to remember the order that everything happened in. And then I'm sobbing into the pillow and talking, even, and thinking that it could have been anyone, it could have happened to Harry or Peter or anyone I care about, anyone at all. Faces swim by: my mom, Renata, people I've never talked to, Oona, Laura, anyone, my father even. And I hate myself for burdening people with my sorrow, which doesn't even belong to me, and I can't admit that anyone can die but I know it and I hate it and it's been at least two hours now and I can't feel my fingers and my throat aches and I'm writing in my head and my head hurts and I have to get up and type or I'll die, and I want to call every number in my phone, and then some, to say that I love them and then hang up, but it's too late. Zack called earlier; "I'm fine," I said. "Are you sure?" "Mmm." "You don't sound fine." Damn. I'm not so opaque; I'm not as deceptive as I'd hoped. "Really. I'm fine." "Positive?" "Mmm." "You don't sound fine, but whatever you say..." and I'm glad he, at least, knows me a little, can tell when I'm not myself, and I hope he's not hurt that I lied to him. Don't you see, Zack? I've told too many people. I can't walk around causing suffering, imposing my pain on other people, imposing someone else's pain on other people. I'm sorry if I got this wrong, if everything happened the other way around. I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I didn't know you at all, I'm sorry I judged you and that I'm crying for you because you're almost an idea now, not even a person, and I'm so very afraid and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry it's so late and I'm so tired of everything and I can't even write a better entry and I'm a terrible person and I'm sorry.

I'm still lying in bed, trying to amass enough energy, enough hope, to get up and write about it so I can sleep and not think, and things start blurring together, and I'm not sure if I'm crying over my mom or Oona's poems or Laura's waist or Elena's number, tacked to my wall even though I know it by heart, a grim reminder of how shitty I've been. And everything's avacado milkshakes and thrift shops and wracking tears and I realize that I'm still saying something. I listen for a moment and hear "I'm fine. I love you. How was your trip?"

Almost Want to Sue Elvis

(The name of the album is actually Almost Went to See Elvis; it's a Dylan bootleg. Unfortunately, the copy I have is lettered in rather poor handwriting, so I made a fool of myself for years by misquoting it. In my mind, however, it will always remain this way.)

This weekend my parents decided that it was high time I toured Georgetown University and visited my relatives in DC, so we set out to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. The tour-lady was annoyingly normal. The longer I stood in the crowd, the more I realized that Georgetown is not the right place for me. I have no interest in working in DC or in the State Department, and my grades aren't good enough to get me in anyway. Plus, the people here are dull as hell, and less attractive.

To make matters worse, while I stood bored out of my wits in front of the lecture-lady, a girl came up to me: "I really like your shoes." I was flattered. I looked down at my maroon converse-clad feet and felt proud of my New Yorker taste. "Really? Thanks. They're new." She smiled. "I love hot pink. It makes me feel so... girly."

I wanted to slap her.

Why am I such a feminist (albeit a closeted one)? I hate 'cute' and 'girly.' And helplessness and pathetic, useless women who get upset about trivial things and can't stand by themselves, and who do things because they're supposed to, not because it means anything to them. I'm not petite, I'll never wear delicate earrings, my nails aren't neat or cherry-red, I don't read Victorian novels and sigh over tea about the lost loves of Mathilde and Osmond, and I hate my own bubbly laugh. Mostly I hate finding the things I despise most in other people in myself.

Now I'm getting all worked up. New topic. I have solomn thoughts in my head today.

After Georgetown, I went to a museum and thought about what it is to be an observer of art. I have always considered myself an intellectual, and I'm not sure exactly why; "What is an intellectual if not one who chooses knowledge over bliss?" I asked in last quarter's Letter from the Editor; at the same time, I have also expressed the opinion that an intellectual is by definition one who is capable of appreciating beauty. I believe that both of these things are true, which leads me to the conclusion that to truly understand beauty is to forsake bliss for knowledge, for art. Art over life. My oldest mantra.

And I walked the halls of this beautiful museum filled with heart-wrenching paintings and thought about my humble self besides these great works and felt insignificant, but beautiful, in an odd way, because I knew that I was capable of appreciating art, at least a little bit, at least enough to understand the worth of what was before my eyes. And at the same time the familiar feeling of drowning overcame me, and I felt pathetic, because in the midst of all this gradeur I don't know anything, I can't even begin to appreciate the emotions of the artists.

The worst part, however, was that, as the familiar, almost nostalgic ache welled up in my chest, I remembered why it is that I don't visit art museums very often. I can't take it. I can't move from one picture to the next and I hate being kicked out at closing time, but worst of all I can't face my pathetic and diminutive knowledge of art. I actually do know a bit about art, mostly from perusing my parents' picture books as a child, and have an OK hand myself (although my ink drawings tend to make people shrink away); but I realize that while I have a loose grip on literature as a whole, have become adept at understanding it, know all the big names --even in music, I'm not lost-- I don't know shit about art, relatively. And I'm terrified, in a way, of the vast world that I can't see. I am reminded of my Mexica ancestors, who believed that water ripples and snake's eyes and death screams were portals into the world of the gods and demons, and feel as though I am seeing only the surface of the water, and I fear what hides beneath, what all-consuming passion could rise within me, how easily I could abandon everything and fall into the abyss of art.

And I stayed quiet and away from my family and read Pablo Neruda's love poems in the car and realized that at heart I'm a book-person. It's true. I'm a book nerd and I always will be, and I'm not afraid any more to belong to my novels. I am enslaved, bound by the passions that burn strong in me and the fact that paperbacks have quite literally shaped the way I see things. I love music, and I love art, and I'm learning to appreciate theater, but the deepest and truest part of me is the wide-eyed little girl who read Salome in a corner and hid her tears.

I remember when I first discovered Oscar Wilde. I was in fifth grade. It was my first taste of real literature, and already I was doomed. I cried over Sibyl Vane and hated Herodias and grew to love Lady Windermere, and I realized for the first time who I truly was, what potential lay in me. In my fingertips, my eyes, my heart, a demon had awakened. I was moved immeasurably by fictional characters; there was something greater than my mundane existence, and I had to have it.

"Mom," my fifth-grade self asked timidly, "do you think I'm an intellectual?"

She looked at me for about ten seconds and then said, "No, I guess not. You're like me and your dad; you're just kind of smart."

"I see."

Later, in private, I cried, silently rocking my body, holding my knees to my already-budding chest under my thin nightgown. It was at that moment that I realized that I was lost from them forever, that I could no longer turn back.

Since that day I have always been alone.

I Wanna Call My Baby, But Them Lines Don't Work Down There...

-Jr. Mack (somebody he quoted tonight)

Why is it that while people are nearby you don't miss them at all, but the second you know they're far away you realize just how much you rely on them? I kept wishing I could see Lucas and Matt and LK and Rie and Sharpie and RCP yesterday. Not to mention Harry. I keep thinking of what he would say about something, or how I'm going to recount certain events to him, and then I start to miss him a little, even though I've been trying so hard not to. And it's only been about two days since I saw him. If he were in the city, a mere phone call away, I probably wouldn't feel this way. How strange. (Edit: Actually, maybe I would. Miss him, that is.)

On a positive note, I did see LK today, my OTP-mate, and we hit Terra Blues to see Jr. Mack and the Harmonica Man (whose real name I don't know). I tried to ignore the candle in front of me without getting so lost in the music that I burned myself; it was tricky. The heat didn't help. It was fun, though.

I kept thinking during my SAT course this morning (yes, I am a dork with SAT-nazi parents) about the difference between how people act at Crash Mansion on Sunday night and in class on Monday morning, and about how Rachel might've gotten home, and how Daniela and Jeremy showed up and pretended not to notice me. I didn't care. Daniela's sixteen and already past her peak (Edit: I saw Schuyler Quinn the other day, and she's thirteen and past her peak). I'm young, alive, passionate and almost normal. Accepted, if not with open arms. I have concerts to go to and friends to talk to when I get there, and yes, I have sweaty hair to pull back while somebody-or-other pukes in the bathroom, and a loving boyfriend to miss. More importantly, I have kind feelings in my heart, and I don't spread unhappiness the way that she does, if only because her 'feminine wiles' and way of getting what she wants invoke jealousy.

After Terra, LK and I hung out at my house and then hit Pucci's basement, where we talked to some Scottish dude (who's got an amazing accent and is somehow connected to Maria Fahey and rolls triple-sized joints) and met Will's girlfriend. I was tired and not very conversationally interesting; she, however, threw me a lifeline, starting and continuing petty conversations so that I wouldn't look stupid. (Which I did, but whatever. (Edit: Laura, I'm sorry: I actually do mean 'whatever' here.) I didn't really feel a need to be conversational or interesting, I guess.) She was nice, and much prettier than she appears here (she's the redhead). She's not as great or as beautiful as Oona, but Curley was incredibly lucky to have Oona in the first place, so we can't really expect his next girlfriend to live up to her standard. And as much as I want to dislike her, she's really not a bad person. Anyway, it's not her fault that he asked her out; she's not the first one that's agreed, and I think we all know by now that the man is just simply a fast mover.

Damn. This is getting gossipy. Time to move on.

I need a Prom dress. I feel like I have to look sensational, because I'm two years too young to be at prom anyway; is that odd? I've always felt like I had to prove something about myself in some way or other, and I still do. If anyone knows a place with really nice dresses (new or vintage) that are relatively cheap, please drop me a line! (Or a comment...)

I bought new Converse(s) yesterday. I feel like a traitor.

Three people in the last week have told me that they think they're not very capable of feeling love; one even told me that her inability to do so makes my emotions--and, by association, me--foreign to her. I guess neither of us know where we're coming from any more; if we weren't so close, it'd be quite sad. Am I the only one who has to stop herself from crying when someone plays Hide Your Love Away next to the Lennon memorial in Central Park? Who struggles not to love people? Maybe I'm just going deaf. Maybe I'm just the only one stupid enough not to know how to hide her love away.

But it's such a sad song.

One thing picked me up a bit, though; when I told Sam Freund about it (in a sentence or two), he said, "Well, all you can do about really cool people who are dead is celebrate how they lived instead of mourning how they died." I know that everyone says it, but there's a reason they say it. Hearing those words really cheered me up just then.

Renata's complaining, and my parents are going to get home any minute, so goodnight unto you all...

We Can Make Music

Today I left David Tay's house feeling like a million dollars. Harry kissed me in the hallway and looked into my eyes and told me he loved me, and the elevator door opened and we jumped. I felt so good, though, that I decided that instead of being embarrassed I would be myself, confident and wonderful. One of the elevator-people (as they shall now be known) had the oddest-looking dog I'd ever seen, and I laughed out loud when I looked at it. "May I?" I asked, and the poor shy elevator-man just nodded mutely as I stooped to pet the tufted thing. After being interrupted with her boyfriend, this strange, denim-clad teen was laughing, smiling at them, petting their dogs and waving to the doorman as she departed! And goodness--as she paused at the door to get her bearings, she whipped out--I still don't believe it--a harmonica! And she's good, too!

Faux-leather hobo cap under one arm and brown high-tops rolling heel-toe across the pavement like pink tongues on a lollipop, I made my way down the street, spitting a fast-paced melody from the metal bar without pausing for breath. People grinned, people covered their ears, people looked away and people met my eyes; when I found a chandelier at the street corner, I picked it up by the chain and laughed, wishing I was in college or at least had my own room. I recollected my strange and lovely day with Harry and dinner with David's friends-of-the-family and felt happy, because I... I don't know why, actually. Harry's going away for a bit, and I'd just made a conversational 'Oops' that I still felt awkward about, so I really shouldn't have felt so amazing. I did, though, and it was nice.

Around Union Square I stopped playing and listened to the silence of the night, which was beautiful. A group of men walked by discussing the movie Snow Mountain (I think that's what it's called), and my summer experience of lying in a dogpile of about ten random people who barely knew eachother on top of a tarp in front of a three-by-four-inch television screen at one in the morning came back to me. I remember Aja (an extremely bright lesbian girl who is semi-openly homosexual in what must be one of the most difficult places in the world to be openly homosexual in), when pressed, asking me, as we walked back to our sections without a flashlight at three AM, what parents would think if they knew that she, who slept next to their little girls and taught them to build fires and sing and saw them in their bikinis, was a lesbian, and not ashamed of it. I remember not knowing what to say. I remember Peanut giving me the last piece of pizza and Eric lending us his truck, and I remember sneaking into the boathouse to find the keys to the dock and sitting in a paddleboat for hours, staring at the stars amongst friends.

Of course, after summoning these memories, I had to open the Sedaris book again, despite my resolution to cherish it and read it slowly. I've just finished the "I Like Boys" chapter of Naked (which explains why I'm blogging at one (Edit: two) in the morning again), and I still can't get over the candid manner with which he describes his and everyone else's views on homosexuality, acting, racial integration and the likes. The contrast with my other current books, Siddhartha and At Play In the Fields of the Lord, is ridiculous. And I'm relishing every minute of it.

I know you're all going to laugh when you read this, and think "oh, V.V., you're such a hippie," and maybe love me and maybe hate me, and maybe disregard me, because that's what happens when you stick labels on people, and maybe think that I'm just having a severe mood swing and don't usually think like this, or maybe think I'm faking all of it--please don't. Please try to feel where I'm coming from... it's one of the truest parts of me, and it's resurfacing, and it's wonderful. Anyway, here goes:

Let's all love each other, please? Please, everyone, there's nothing I care about more. Let's get rid of all the vile, nasty things inside of us; let's be a bunch of people who don't even have to know each other all that well, but who love each other and know that we are loved, without fear or jealousy or anger or frustration, and let's help each other and hold each other tight and kiss each other's faces and not feel awkward about it. Let's not talk shit about people, let's not cut them open over tea and build up resentment when there's nobody there to defend them for reasons we aren't even sure of; let's forgive each other for our annoying habits, let's stop ourselves from getting irritated about tiny and meaningless things, let's be beautiful and clean like water and solid like earth and tell each other what we mean. Let's hold onto the truth and listen to the little voices that tell us whens something's off-kilter in the way we're treating people; let's not label each other or stuff people into stereotypes until their poor bound souls start growing backwards and bleeding. It's spring and we've got our whole lives ahead of us, and we're smart and funny and cool and intellectual and we all deserve the best that we can give each other, so let's do it, yeah? Let's get rid of our winter demons and turn into the wonderful free summer people that we are. Let's be beautiful together. I know we can't all be all of those things all the time, and I've seen pain and suffering and grief and (God knows!) anger and isolation, but let's try... we can, I know it, we can, even if we slip up and lose it, even if it's gone for years... we can do it. We can make music.

Damn. Now I feel embarrassed. Ah, well. "It's too late now for you to be sorry..."

I'm Henry VIII, I am!

Today Rachel and I cut Bram's class (we had a sub anyway) to consume carbohydrates in Union Square and discuss our boyfriends. We all went to St.'s Alp after school and had tea (I discovered the Juliet Special... mmmmm...) and then watched Death Factory, a hilariously bad movie. Harry and I walked a ways with Oona and then went to his house; we got philosophical and emotional (don't really feel like talking/blogging about that, though) and ate dinner and watched part of a Miyazaki movie about a character that he thinks is a lot like me, which was good.

Whew. Got that out of my system. Now I can really blog.

My sister and my dad are skiing in Vermont right now, so it's just my mom and me and an empty ol' house. My mom's in bed right now; I should be, but I read more David Sedaris on the subway and started laughing--howling--right out loud, and now I'm antsy. Everyone on the train just stared at me, but I couldn't stop. I was in a great mood, and my rib cage literally started to ache after a while. It was excellent. I'm at the part in Naked where he's describing Ya-Ya, the Greek grandmother who does all sorts of crazy things like licking the pastor's shoes when they take her to church (in hopes of helping her make friends) and such. It's amazing, and I owe Sharpie a big mug of bubble-tea for lending it to me.

Anyway, I was so excited about the book that I decided to relish it and not read it too quickly; however, the Sedaris-ish mood of the book wouldn't leave me, and I needed entertainment. To sum it up, I reread all nine weeks (!) of my own Blogger archives. And realized that it's gone to pot lately. The last entry was OK, I think, if a bit wordy; but how did my posts go from short, sincere and mildly witty to long and boring? I guess it was the whole 'writer's block' thing. Dammit.

My grammar's not that great, either. I think the internet makes me lazy.

I think I need to find the blogger that I was a month ago and return her to her rightful throne at the head of Dark-Eyed Gypsy. Because she's me. I mean, I'm her. I mean... whatever.

One thing I've noticed is that as I've become progressively more aware of my audience, my blog posts have become successively worse. Dammit. I wish I knew who reads this thing. I tried getting a sitemeter, but the website was cheap and kept saying that nobody had seen this, even though a bunch of comments showed up, so somebody must have visited.

This is more like the blog--and blogger--of Dark-Eyed Gypsy that I know and love. Mmmm. Craziness.

It's too late for this. Too early for this, technically. About 1 AM. Oops.
I'm too sleepy to have good grammar or cater to an audience.

Yesterday, when Harry suggested that I update, I actually said "No, I'm going to wait 'till I get a few more comments on my last post before I update." I'm becoming my own antithesis. I can't believe I even thought of that. I'm going to revert to not caring about the number of comments on my post or what people will think of them, and to posting about what I feel and not what I've done.

I wish I'd gotten to know you seniors better... I've always been too self-conscious around old people (and by 'old people' I mean 'seniors') to get to know you (collective), and now that I know you a bit better, y'all're leaving without me! Tear.

Gah. I have nothing else to say. I want to keep some stuff for myself right now. (Please disregard this post, everyone; I'm tired and nothing makes much sense right now.) Screw this and screw the deep thoughts I was blogging in my head on the way home and screw saving the book for later. I'm going to go read some more. And then sleep a little. Maybe.

...and Veronica is back!

......zzzzzzzzzz......

Gypsy Lou

This gypsy metaphor stuff is getting so pretentious! It's so easy to do, though. And, despite being an overused and cliched metaphor, it's perfect for me.

Before I forget to ask: somebody lend me some David Sedaris! I don't have any, and I'm too broke to buy it!

I realized today that the reason that my blog doesn't reflect my personality at all is that I censor myself, and restrict myself. Take my last post, for example. I had a busy weekend, and felt obligated to blog about everything that happened to me. From now on I'm going to blog the way I think--philosophically, drawing concrete conclusions from my life and the world as I see it. That's what I enjoy most, what I care about most. I had just about reached this conclusion when I read this blog; the final straw hit my metaphysically camel-like back and I decided to be honest and blog the way I want to. If I'm controversial, so be it. I'm not a judgemental person, and I don't intend to insult anyone directly, and if people disagree with my opinions... well, then they'll have to come to terms with that. I'm not hiding any more. I'm Veronica Midnight, an atheist, a hippy, an idealist, not a blind liberal, a very bad vegitarian, a soft-hearted animal lover, an ex-buddhist, a book nerd, and a very lost and wide-eyed person. And many things besides. Take it or leave it.

I've got two main literary projects in mind that I haven't really told anyone about yet. The first one I described to Harry early in its development and to LK and Rachel more recently; the last one I've barely told anyone about. One is a short story/novel, and one is a one-act autobiographical play. The odd things about the play are that I'm doing it for Playwriting class (although I'm getting inspired so much that I think I'd write it even if I didn't have to) and that Frankie's also doing one of those. The difference, so far as I can discern, is that hers is about her, and ready to shoot; mine is unconcluded, unwritten, and generally unprofessional. And I'm loving it.

The problem with me and plotlines, you see, is that I get fabulous ideas and work at them like a slave (after all, I really am a slave to my books) until they slowly but surely begin represent my own life, or the lives of people I know.

So, to make a long story short, I decided to write about myself.

And you know what? I think it's going to be OK. I think, when it's done, that I might not hate it.

Basically, it's about a main character--me--examining the way people invest passion in things; religion, politics, science, art, other people, etc.; and trying to draw conclusions about the nature of human passion. Misplaced? The only thing that matters? Useless? Too mundane? The only truly lofty thing? Questions in this vein. There would be a character that represents the antithesis of my existence, a lot of passionate people sharing their experiences with me, and some sort of facet that reflects the way the main character changes, making room for a killer monologue at the end.

The problem is that I don't know how it ends. I don't know what conclusion I'll come to, if I'll even reach one. Perhaps I'll pull a 28 Days Later and write five or six endings; maybe I'll play them all out like a madwoman and let the reader draw their own conclusions. Maybe it's not so much of a play as a book or something.

Maybe I'll write you all in.

Witty Frankie, bright-eyed Rie, understated Sharpie, blossoming Laura, veiled Oona, magnificent, bitingly cynical Elena, loving (and brooding) Alex, analytical Greg, wise Zack, sunny Chloe, lively Lucas, cheerful Rachel, open-hearted Jaya, and, of course, my own sweet insane loveable Harry could all have parts. (And anyone else I've forgotten--I know I'm missing a bunch of people. I'm too lazy to figure out who; you guys know that I love you.) It'd be perfect.

I've been reading Herman Hesse's Siddhartha all week, and I'm falling in love with it. I don't feel as Buddhist as I once did, but I'm definately feeling my Zen roots again, and it feels great. I feel far more balanced already. It's easy to forget to take care of yourself, to make yourself happy, and the less happy you are, the less you desire to lift yourself to the light again; but the second you feel the golden rays, you remember again how lovely they are, and how badly you want to stay there forever.

Yesterday for some reason I snapped. I hadn't eaten lunch or breakfast, or much dinner the night before, and I was PMSing, and Renata and Harry had taken forever to get out of the house to get to this Sushi place I wanted to go to; while I was on line to buy the sushi, Renata shoved another box of Salmon rolls on top of my pile, my phone rang, Renata said "I don't have any money, so you're going to have to buy my food, V." at the same time as Harry said "Could you pass me one of those?" and I dropped the sushi boxes. I answered my phone with one shoulder while picking things up with one hand and fishing for my wallet with the other, and Elena said "Dude, I'm bored" into my ear while Harry asked for his soup cup again. And I flipped like a light switch from 'Happy and loving' to 'Reasonlessly pissy.' And then something vile came out in me and I became the part of me that I hate most, the part that came out when I couldn't write, the part that comes out when I fight with my parents and when I cry about stupid things. And every vile thought that came into my head was true, bitingly accurate and painfully real. And then we ran into Ms. Daly at Books of Wonder and Renata read me a Dr. Seuss book to try to cheer me up.

I meant and felt all of those things. I still do. I just feel so much love in addition to all of those feelings now. (Bad grammar, I know; 'I feel so much love that __.') It is exceedingly strange. Something happened then; I saw this ugly thing in me and realized that it's a part of me, and that I can kill it, or at keep it dormant, maybe even rid myself of it. I remembered who I became when I was awarded Silver Knighthood, and all of the love that scattered when I dropped the sushi boxes came back to me like a flood to a land of drought, and it was beautiful.

I wish I could turn my mind off. I think too much. I poison myself sometimes, and I never tell anyone my deeper thoughts, as though they were too intimate to disclose, as though I might get hurt again. Who knows? I might. Oh, God. There I go again. I have to stop myself from developing the insane inferiority complexes of my-life until-last-year all over again.

I honestly used to think that there were these girls--in my grade and everywhere--who were perfect. They were all pretty and neat and charismatic and popular, and they never had bad hair days; I came to believe that they were invincible, that they couldn't look bad if they tried. They were feminine and dainty and beautiful, and I was a gawky ape with glasses in comparison. (I really was, though. I was much taller than any of them and had a one-inch haircut that didn't suit me at all.) I felt like a different and inferior species. I knew that I was smarter than any (or at least most) of them, and that I was capable of and in the habit of deeper thought on a more regular basis than most of them; but they looked down on me, so I looked down on myself. I couldn't even talk to them. It was ridiculous. I wasn't friendless or anything; I had a wonderful group of wacky, non-mainstream friends who all grew to hate each other by the time they left. I turned hippie and learned to be happy and to love. I went to high school and made new friends and learned to talk to people (even though I'm still pretty bad at that) and never abandoned my books. I found my gypsy self and learned to find beauty in things, to see things the way Poe and Pushkin and Lawrence and Blake and Francesca Lia Bloch did, to see the magic surrounding them. And suddenly I've got a boyfriend that I love and who loves me back, just as I am (something I hadn't dared to dream would ever happen to me), and people who I admire immensely have befriended me of their own accord and a few of those beautiful, unnattainable people have become editors and staff reporters under my supervision and report to me and respect me as an equal and smile and wave when they see me in the hallways. And when I have two weeks to spend in the city, suddenly I've got the guts to call people up and make plans, and I've got concerts to hear and plays to see and things to do, and I won't mind taking a few days to relax and not see anyone, and I'm me, Gypsy Lou, at last, but this time I'm not running away; I'm just enjoying running and feeling the grass underfoot.

I'm just a ramblin', gamblin' gypsy...

On Friday Harry didn't come to school, completely destroying my evening plans to crash a freshman party (Greg-sans-Tongue's), eat sushi, and try to introduce him to some folk music. When I found out with David Tay over calamari salad that Harry had the flu, not Senioritis, I prepared to arm myself with soup; when it turned out that his parents didn't want me over while he was sick, I was left to face two hours of boredom.

In a way I felt relieved; these days, two hours of leisure time is a rare window in my life. I headed over to St. Mark's Place to look for familiar faces (none--they're all in college) and a Russian Communist Party hat for Greg-sans-Tongue. I found the hat, and bargained it down to a reasonable price, while talking to a twenty-ish guy looking for a newsboy's cap. When he asked for my phone number, I got a bit jittery. I payed in crumpled bills and ducked into Kmart (which has gone down the tubes, by the way). My cell phone rang almost as soon as I walked in, and I took the opportunity to invite myself over to Elena's house.

I walked relatively slowly down the street, playing my harmonica to my heart's delight, savoring the maleable notes on my tongue, bending them with my lips, tapping a beat with my fingers. Around Fifth Avenue, I felt a finger on my shoulder.

He was about five-eleven, bleached blonde and toting a guitar; your average St. Mark's Place musician. I dimly recalled meeting him through Ash at Search And Destroy once, but I doubt that he remembered me.

"This may sound a little wierd," he began, and I braced myself, "but I've been walking behind you for the last two blocks, and you're pretty damn good."

I went dumb. "Uh... thank you," I said, rather awkwardly.

"Do you ever perform?"

"Uh... well, I haven't, but..."

"Would you? I'm organizing a benefit concert for politically censored musicians, and it'd be great if you could do a song or two."

"Yeah," I said, dumbfounded, recovering just enough sense to remember to play it cool; "That sounds great. I'll definately think about it."

"Great." A card; a name, a number. No band, no venue, no address. Should I have been frightened? For some reason I wasn't. Instead, I ducked into GirlProps and treated myself to a celebratory pair of earrings.

When I got to Elena's house, the first thing she did was hug me and tell me she loves me. I was touched; I did the same and then shed my coat and backpack, fallling routinely onto the sofa.

And then, suddenly, she had this look on her face, almost a smile, cheeks rounded and eyes lowered, and I wondered if she was pranking me or was deeply affected. It's the same look she gave me when she told me that Paul McCartney had died on April Fool's Day (I believed her); egotistically determined not to be tricked, I put on a mask and became mildly skeptical.

The second she started talking, however, I realized the terrible mistake I'd made. It wasn't a prank. A senior at her school had been killed in a car crash with her mother; the father was on his way to Washington to tell his son that his mother and sister had both been killed.

There's no way to describe how it feels to hold one of the people you care about most in the world in your arms while they cry; the solace of being the needed shoulder becomes worthless, replaced by a physical pain, a terrible wrenching feeling in the heart. Elena is an extremely smart person, and a very sensitive one; she has a tendancy to see an event from many angles, amplifying its impact in the process. I held her and she talked, told me everything she'd seen and heard and thought of during the day, everything she'd felt, and I ate Botan Rice Candy and tried to think of what words I could possible speak that would lessen the pain, tried to determine if I even wanted to. In the end, silence sufficed for my defecit. The thing that stuck with me most from what she said in that hour was the vision of our own insignificance, of the meaningless void of our daily niceties and the pointless nuances of our lives. "None of it matters," she said, and I cringed, recalling other times I'd heard those words.

After Elena and I walked out together, she subwayed to her ambiguous destination and I went home and greeted my Abuela and my uncle Oscar, two of the people I admire most. My Abuela made fried chicken and tomato-soaked rice, and Matt came over eventually to share it before we headed to Greg's thingy at The Knitting Factory.

Before seeing Greg, we dropped in on Harry, who was sleepy but not ill, and Harry and I thoroughly embarrassed Matt; then we hit the streets aimlessly, attacking innocent passerbys for directions. We ended up missing the concert, because it opened an hour late, but when Greg assured me that my love was enough, I felt less guilty. Matt and I left, casting backwards glances on the way, in search of a 1-9.

I never have any trouble talking to Matt, so the forty minute subway ride wasn't a problem; I ate twizzlers and we discussed life like the old buddies that we are. We arrived almost exactly on time (although only because we ran down the river walk), and I even got to meet some of Ireland's most famous musicians. I got giddy with twizzler-itis and started jiggling the line of pew-chairs in the church and tapping my feet before the music started, but once the first notes hit my ears, I was enthralled. All evening Matt had been saying adorably humble things like "V.V., you really don't have to feel obligated to come if you don't want to," and "if it's not mcuh fun for you, I'm really sorry," and I had come to expect some sort of music that makes sense only to people fluent in Gaelic, or something unintelligible to those who lack curly hair. What I found instead was enchanting, lively folk music of the sort I had listened to for years; I even knew two of the guitar-and-vocal ballads. The singer had a lovely Irish accent and dark eyes and hair like Joan Baez, and her voice made me moan internally. I felt my gypsy blood stirring.

At one point they announced that they wanted two pairs of audience members to step up and learn to dance an Irish reil. "Nobody ever does this," Matt whispered. "It's pretty embarrassing for the announcers." How could I resist? "Then let's do it!" "V.V. ..."

It was too late. I had already begun dragging the poor fellow into the aisle. And guess what? Almost everyone joined in. The small cathedral came to life with embarrassed and hesitant feet. I let myself go; I'm sure I injured several people in the process, but it felt great. My heels ached during the subway ride home, but I didn't mind. I convinced Matt to get a cup of Starbucks tea with me, and we resumed our never-ending semi-philosophical discussion of life until about eleven (he had SATs the next day). I changed out of my skirt outside my apartment door and slipped into bed as softly as if I had been dreaming the whole time. It was lovely.

On Saturday I went to the Strand with my family and Harry and walked out with a dozen or so half-priced paperbacks. My parents rolled their eyes, and Harry told me to put some back, but I brushed them off and bought them all, and I don't regret it. Afterwards, Harry and I went to see Robots, possibly the worst animated film I've ever seen. Visually, it was interesting, yes--but the characters were so completely one dimensional that we both had to laugh. I kept expecting an interesting twist that would add some depth to the characters; there was none to be found. Still, when I consider the humour of the situation, I wonder if it wasn't bad enough (and on such a high budget!) to deserve my ten dollars.

On Sunday I was put under house arrest, and fought about it with my parents; on Monday I ate expensive sushi with Harry (more details later) and on Tuesday I watched Miyazaki movies. In case you wondered.

Damn. This is a long post. Sorry.

Devil In Her Eyes

Two days ago, I ate dinner at Harry's house. This in itself was not monumental; in fact, it was relatively commonplace. I left later than I intended to, but this was not unusual either; in fact, the only things that were unusual were the fact that my ipod stubbornly refused to work and the speed with which the train arrived. I was all grunged-out; I had on jeans, red duct tape Converse Chucks, a red backpack, a denim jacket, a black sweatshirt, and a Russian/German (?) Naval Captain's hat. I felt very average, in fact.

I had been sitting peacefully beneath my headphones for a few stops before someone unusual, monumental and un-average walked on. He was about six foot four or five and accompanied by a girl in red Converse Chucks, jeans, a denim jacket, a black sweatshirt and a black newsboy's cap with shoulder-length brown hair. His head was shaved completely, and he wore a black taylored suit. Red ruffled sleeves protruded from the neat body of the suit. His entire head was painted a vivid red color, and two wax horns, each about two inches long and deliciously tapered, extended upwards from his temples. I smiled at them from my habitual corner, actually letting a "Ha!" escape before resettling myself to pretend to ignore him (an impossible feat).

I was still wearing my headphones, even though the ipod was frozen, so I suppose they didn't know that I could hear them. I couldn't, at first, because they were whispering; eventually, though, the tones of their voices were raised to a level audible from my corner.

"Give it to her!" the girl hissed.
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Because!"
"Because what?"
"Because she's attractive, OK?"
"So?"
"So... so!"
"So what? Give it to her!"
"Fine!"

On cue, I stood up to wait for my stop (the next one). The tall devil stood up nervously, shuffling from foot to foot, and finally presented me with two matchbook-sized pamphlets.

"God Is Fake," I read.

He grinned. I grinned back.

"I like it."

The doors opened. I walked off and headed for my entrance. As the train left, he waved, and I waved back. This goes in the one-act, I thought.

"Mom--" I said excitedly, unlocking the door--"I just met this guy dressed like a devil on the subway with this girl who looked like me. He gave me a flyer that said 'God Is Fake'."

"V, you know better than to talk to strangers! Now get in bed."

The phone rang. It was Matt.

"Hey, man, the wierdest thing just happened to me... I met the devil on the subway."

"V, get off the phone and go to bed! It's late!"

Somehow I think she missed the point.

Only A Hobo

Summery weather makes me insanely happy. As do my jean jacket and ghettofabulous hobo hat. And the duct tape shoes. And ice cream and friends and love.

I have no idea how people percieve me. I'm tempted to say "...and I don't care," but that would be a lie. I do care. Deeply. I found out a few weeks ago that this girl who I thought was my friend doesn't like me at all. Granted, she also called Rachel CP a "pushy lesbian," which is not only cruel and innacurate but also extremely homophobic-ish, but still... it hurt me. And when I think people don't like me, or when they don't make it clear, I get hurt. I really, honestly like--love--almost everyone I meet... is that a character flaw? It probably won't help me in the future, but I can't help it.

For the last week I haven't been able to shake the recurring feeling that I'm seeing everything through blue lenses, sad and poetic and poignant and beautiful. I used to see things that way always; when my writing died, my gypsy perspective waned slowly. I used to honestly feel like a gypsy. I wanted to dance and sing and pound the floor with my bare feet. I did dance and sing and pound the floor with my bare feet. I wore long skirts and played the guitar and was filled with love. I feel those feelings, that sense of myself, returning to me-- the love, the freedom, the defiance, the very life of me. This morning I remembered (finally!) the lyrics of a song I wrote last year, and since I'm in a sharing-and-caring mood, I'll include them... don't judge them harshly, folks, because I wrote the whole thing in half an hour so that I wouldn't have to tell Fish that I didn't prepare for his class, because I love him deeply. Still, I think it captures a moment... I truly, truly felt this way. I lived Dylan's lyrics, one might say, and I'm beginning to feel as though I'm living them once again.


Ballad of the Gypsy Girl

I'm just a rambling gypsy girl
Dancing through the streets they long to leave
Bare feet hit the pavement as
I watch their sad lives weave

(Melodic bridge here)

Politicians and parents were making sounds
An' pulling their faces long
Tying their gossomar strings 'round us
With empty words like 'wrong'
But now I can hear that all that they fear
Is that it's I who will greet the dawn

An' if I'm not wearing a gold skirt spun from straw
Or the red dancing shoes of your dreams
It's only because you needed to know
That even freedom has seams
And since everyone else is long gone
It's I who must greet the dawn

(Repetition of opening melody)

So I'll wander the streets with my strange gypsy song
And I'll listen for the cries of those who've lived too long
And I'll laugh and I'll cry and I'll steal
'Cause it's all too real
And I guess that I've known all along
That it's I who must greet the dawn.


I've got a whole page of story ideas lined up, and a one-act, and possibly (I've resolved not to get my hopes up just yet) a documentary with Alex. I even scribbled down the skeleton of a sonnet in the lobby this morning. I haven't written anything yet, so I guess I really can't talk, but I'm getting there, and I can feel it welling up inside of me, that return to life, to who I really am. To the person Zack saw as a raven.

Your CDs are coming, everyone. I've just been very lazy. I'll probably do them this week, or this weekend.

About a week ago I decided to try out the "Next Blog" button. I tried thirty sites before realizing that we--that's right, we-the-FS-bloggers--lead far more interesting lives than most people. Our grammer is far superior, and our narrative styles are more engaging; we're just really good bloggers. I felt very cool after that.

Unfortunately, both Rachel and Harry have mastered the technique of undoing my bra now, although I had my vengeance against Rachel during Chem this morning. Harry's trespasses are harder to revenge. He managed to do it single-handedly during Sculpture this morning; I had to run to the bathroom to fix it in the middle of our critique. Yarrott glared at me (although I didn't see it--I found out from Harry's later report). The light in the bathroom didn't work very well, because two of the three bulbs had fizzled out, so I locked the door and contented myself with the remainder. I put my jacket and hobo hat on the table and took off my shirt in the semidarkness and caught a glimpse of myself, quite by accident, in the full-wall mirror. I'm going to trust the accepting nature of my audience for this bit; I know you (dear reader... heh heh) won't feel funny about this intimacy. I looked in the mirror and saw myself in my jeans and yellow necklace and bare breasts and noticed that I've really lost weight. I weigh a good seven pounds less now than I did at the beginning of freshman year, and it shows. My stomache looked mildly muscular, and my skin was smooth and tight, and my breasts (I'm not afraid to say it!) were tender and pert. I'm no model, I thought, but I'm really not in bad shape. With the dim lighting and yellow necklace and the pile of clothing on the table, the moment was so beautiful that I felt like crying from the sheer and perfect coincidence of it all; I checked my tears, though, remembering Yarrott outside, and put on my bra, then my shirt, then my jacket, then my hat, and opened the door again to face the world. I wish I'd had a camera, though, to preserve the moment forever, if only for myself.

Instead I've got a blog, and my posts about events are never as powerful as the emotions I describe. In fact, I'm dissappointed in how I've risen to the challenge of having a blog. I'm just trusting that I'll get better over time, and hoping that the practice of blogging will at least get me to write a little more freely. It can't hurt.

This is getting to be a very long post, and I'm starting to feel guilty about having written it. One last thought before I take leave of this and get back to my Poe book:

I really wish we could all blog honestly about each other. Everything's a little tense, really, because everyone reads everything, eventually; if they don't read it when you write it, their friends will tell them and give them the site, and people will be hurt all around. I'm speaking for the more frequently-read blogs; I doubt that mine is perused often enough for this to be a real problem, except within the FS Blogger community. I guess life's like that; nobody can ever say what they mean without fearing that it will get to the wrong place or person eventually. I just wish we all knew what people thought of us. I'm tired of secrecy and social niceties. I wish I could pass a survey to all of the people in my grade and have us rate on a one-to-ten scale how much we liked people, anonymously. It's a terrible idea, I'm sure, and almost everyone would be hurt by it, and those who weren't would go about with superior attitudes and annoying self-confidence, but still... wouldn't it be nice to know how you're actually seen?

I guess I'm just sick of people not saying what they mean. I'm getting incoherent now, and the vocabulary at my fingertips is decreasing by the second, so I'll sign off and leave you in peace, free from the obligation at last of finishing my post, if it was ever there at all.