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.