Can't blame you, Lelenya
It's amazing how difficult it is to write two pages about the weather. It feels impossible right now.
Instead: my weekend, though probably not as exciting as yours, if you're a senior/interesting person.
Friday was Renata's graduation. Was everyone else's graduation. Was Prom. Was beautiful.
Saturday I took a dozen now-freshman to Lazar Park and tried to ignore the sleazy guy who worked there and kept hitting on me and telling me to call him "big daddy." After spending an hour or so drinking coffee and reading Steinbeck and Thomas Hardy I felt strong. "I have a boyfriend who's a black belt," I said when I picked them up again, just for the hell of it. I lied a little, but it doesn't matter because I don't think he heard me. Harry was off winning arm wrestling matches on Fire Island anyway.
Sunday I went to Harry's house for a while and then suddenly got very sick and left the restaurant that Harry and Travis and I were at without eating and went back to lie on his sofa. It seemed vitally important to know the name of every book on the shelf, except for the red ones because I read somewhere that red is the hardest color to read off of. I kept saying I was fine until I started vomiting. Poor Harry had to clean it up and find a t-shirt for me and a box of strong mints to clear the taste. Not very romantic, I'll admit. Renata came upstairs to get me (my parents thought I had apendixitis for some reason) and both of H.'s parents thought she was me. Travis went mute. I think he was just disgusted by the whole thing. When I started feeling better I went home and collapsed into bed.
Monday morning I woke up starved and ate some cereal and had a cup of coffee and felt better. Renata and I walked around the village and shopped at various underground thrift shops and ate baguette and tapioca tea and then I went to graduation with Tia (I showed up a little late) and listened to Eric making jokes and socialized a little and generally felt proud of my silly Bogo San and his whole grade, which is really pretty awesome. Had dinner at Zen Palate with his family, picked up Tia, put on a funky/revealing caftan-dress with a belt and some beads and went to Grad Party but didn't actually go in, came back to my house and looked over the yearbook and talked ruthlessly about people. I continued to be a dork and try to persuade Renata to read Pushkin's plays (especially Mozart and Salieri).
People really have stopped reading this. And somehow I don't mind. I'm becoming something of a hermit--people are amazing, but some days I can take them or leave them. Very strange. I guess I just sort of write for myself now, with no regard for the readability and deepness or lack thereof of my posts. I've got about twenty unpublished posts in my files now. Is this creative laziness? Is this some weird blindness to how I actually am? Some moral defecit? Am I even a "good" person? Somehow I don't care. I feel mellow. Renata's reading Battle Angel Alita (god damn you infiltrative otaku!) in her pijamas and looking lovely, as always. She's started making little claymation films of people melting and forming and changing into animals and things. She dragged me to Utrecht to find her more clay. The people were nice. It was empty and poignantly new and sad. My window-box flowers are dying. My guitar sits untouched. The lovely white flowers Harry brought before Prom are still fresh in the living room and lovely as ever. I'm wearing the harmonica shirt Oona made for me before I knew if we were friends. Do I know any better now? I've lost even more weight, another two pounds. Am I imagining that my pants are looser and softer? Why don't I understand anime? I want to see then new Miyazaki movie but I'd take Oona's drawings any day. Or Renata's. Or my own, even.
Enough of this. It's too late for rhetorical questions. Here are some photos. Here is my life and my sister and my boyfriend and myself.
I like taking pictures of myself. I don't know why I do it. I guess it makes me feel individual or real or something.
Renata's graduation
How I remember Renata's graduation
I'm sure I was saying something important...
...and this was his reaction:
Edit: I don't care if you read my blog or not, but this is a different story. It doesn't matter who you are or how you got here. Just read it!
Instead: my weekend, though probably not as exciting as yours, if you're a senior/interesting person.
Friday was Renata's graduation. Was everyone else's graduation. Was Prom. Was beautiful.
Saturday I took a dozen now-freshman to Lazar Park and tried to ignore the sleazy guy who worked there and kept hitting on me and telling me to call him "big daddy." After spending an hour or so drinking coffee and reading Steinbeck and Thomas Hardy I felt strong. "I have a boyfriend who's a black belt," I said when I picked them up again, just for the hell of it. I lied a little, but it doesn't matter because I don't think he heard me. Harry was off winning arm wrestling matches on Fire Island anyway.
Sunday I went to Harry's house for a while and then suddenly got very sick and left the restaurant that Harry and Travis and I were at without eating and went back to lie on his sofa. It seemed vitally important to know the name of every book on the shelf, except for the red ones because I read somewhere that red is the hardest color to read off of. I kept saying I was fine until I started vomiting. Poor Harry had to clean it up and find a t-shirt for me and a box of strong mints to clear the taste. Not very romantic, I'll admit. Renata came upstairs to get me (my parents thought I had apendixitis for some reason) and both of H.'s parents thought she was me. Travis went mute. I think he was just disgusted by the whole thing. When I started feeling better I went home and collapsed into bed.
Monday morning I woke up starved and ate some cereal and had a cup of coffee and felt better. Renata and I walked around the village and shopped at various underground thrift shops and ate baguette and tapioca tea and then I went to graduation with Tia (I showed up a little late) and listened to Eric making jokes and socialized a little and generally felt proud of my silly Bogo San and his whole grade, which is really pretty awesome. Had dinner at Zen Palate with his family, picked up Tia, put on a funky/revealing caftan-dress with a belt and some beads and went to Grad Party but didn't actually go in, came back to my house and looked over the yearbook and talked ruthlessly about people. I continued to be a dork and try to persuade Renata to read Pushkin's plays (especially Mozart and Salieri).
People really have stopped reading this. And somehow I don't mind. I'm becoming something of a hermit--people are amazing, but some days I can take them or leave them. Very strange. I guess I just sort of write for myself now, with no regard for the readability and deepness or lack thereof of my posts. I've got about twenty unpublished posts in my files now. Is this creative laziness? Is this some weird blindness to how I actually am? Some moral defecit? Am I even a "good" person? Somehow I don't care. I feel mellow. Renata's reading Battle Angel Alita (god damn you infiltrative otaku!) in her pijamas and looking lovely, as always. She's started making little claymation films of people melting and forming and changing into animals and things. She dragged me to Utrecht to find her more clay. The people were nice. It was empty and poignantly new and sad. My window-box flowers are dying. My guitar sits untouched. The lovely white flowers Harry brought before Prom are still fresh in the living room and lovely as ever. I'm wearing the harmonica shirt Oona made for me before I knew if we were friends. Do I know any better now? I've lost even more weight, another two pounds. Am I imagining that my pants are looser and softer? Why don't I understand anime? I want to see then new Miyazaki movie but I'd take Oona's drawings any day. Or Renata's. Or my own, even.
Enough of this. It's too late for rhetorical questions. Here are some photos. Here is my life and my sister and my boyfriend and myself.
I like taking pictures of myself. I don't know why I do it. I guess it makes me feel individual or real or something.
Renata's graduation
How I remember Renata's graduation
I'm sure I was saying something important...
...and this was his reaction:
Edit: I don't care if you read my blog or not, but this is a different story. It doesn't matter who you are or how you got here. Just read it!
posted by VVM at 7:08 AM
1 New Ideas
New Ideas:-
Anonymous thinks...
-
- 7:15 AM
I find it annoying and embarrassing when people tell me I'm pretty, but it also kinda makes me feel happy, so I'll tell you: YOU ARE GORGEOUS, VERONICA! So is Harry, for that matter. I love your blogs!
Post a Comment
<< Home