Winter Trees by William Carlos Williams

"All the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold."

The Idea by Mark Strand

for Nolan Miller

"For us, too, there was a wish to possess

Something beyond the world we knew, beyond ourselves,

Beyond our power to imagine, something nevertheless

In which we might see ourselves; and this desire

Came always in passing, in waning light, and in such cold

That ice on the valley’s lakes cracked and rolled,

And blowing snow covered what earth we saw,

And scenes from the past, when they surfaced again,

Looked not as they had, but ghostly and white

Among false curves and hidden erasures;

And never once did we feel we were close

Until the night wind said, “Why do this,

Especially now? Go back to the place you belong;”

And there appeared , with its windows glowing, small,

In the distance, in the frozen reaches, a cabin;

And we stood before it, amazed at its being there,

And would have gone forward and opened the door,

And stepped into the glow and warmed ourselves there,

But that it was ours by not being ours,

And should remain empty. That was the idea."

Laura

"I'm not dead yet. I could be soon. And all I want to do, is put my arms around you."

Crying in the school library.

Western Civ

Rousseau: Social contract; french; romantic movement
Marquis: Sadist; French revolution
Robespierre: Jacobin; Reign of terror
d'Holbach: Atheist
Paine: common sense; american rev; god
Kant: Enlightenment

Closing

"Hardships often prepare ordinary people for an extraordinary destiny." - C.S. Lewis.

Easier

Make something beautiful, anyway.

Tongue

Surgery.

Tongue.

Insurance.

Appointments.

Christmas trees.

Zoloft.

Emails.

Cell phone.

Bloodwork.

Incredibly Close.

Gilmore Girls.

Homework.

Grades.

Christmas tree brownies.

Sea salt.

Mouthwash.

Kudos.

Risk.

Eyesight.

Overheating laptop.

Sirens.

Rain.

The Met

Gillian

Papa

"He thought that he would lie down and  think about nothing. Sometimes he could do this. Sometimes he could think about the stars without wondering about them and the ocean without problems and the sunrise without what it would bing."

- Islands In The Stream, by Hemingway

I'm feeling anxious lately.

My heart hurts and I see purple specks and my heartbeat gets fast and I have to sit down and breathe deeply and sometimes I can sleep and sometimes I can't, like right now.

Therapy tomorrow, after class.

Medication Tuesday, hopefully.

I'm working on the other things, hopefully.

Sky

Pandora's Box by Rene Magritte.

(Source: rasiel.com)


This is a beautiful painting. I love this painting. I have just seen it for the first time and I love it.

I have a thing for lampposts.

The man's black jacket next to the white rose.

Why is there a white rose?

The color of the sky.

The color of the sky!

The man looks like he's walking over a bridge.

Where is he walking to?

All of the buildings look very similar, although not quite the same.

The color of the sky.

I love this painting.

I don't know the story of Pandora's Box, but I'm going to look it up now. Well I know the basics of it but...off to look it up.

Mmmm.

Floral

I painted over that painting a few weeks ago.

It was a nice painting.

It's gone now.

After class I went out to eat eggs at a diner across from my school, and I sat the painting down in the chair across from me. The waiter looked at it and left and came back and asked if it was Frida. I said no. When I was leaving he told me it was a nice painting.

I think he had a mustache. The waiter, that is.

I'm sitting downstairs now. The television is on, and some Morgan Freeman movie is playing. We set up the Christmas tree today, and it's lit up to my right. 

When we first started setting it up we heard a loud snap. One of the plastic bits of the stand broke off. I think it was my fault. It made the tree start listing to the side. It's a fake tree, by the way. 

We tried putting a pack of post its under the stand to balance it, and then a book of matches, and a weird green plastic ruler like thing. Nothing really worked until my mom had the idea to tie a piece of twine around the tree, and tack the twine to the wall. It's working so far.

Everyone in my house is sleeping or trying to sleep.

My dogs are laying on the floor in front of me. They were excited to see the tree and the beads and the lights and the ornaments. 

Morgan Freeman is young in this movie.

My hair is big right now. I felt a panic attack about to come on earlier, just a small one, probably, so I took a shower and scrubbed my scalp with pine tree shampoo. Before I showered I picked at the blackheads on my nose, and forehead, and chin, and chest until I was bleeding.

Sometimes I "have" to pick my skin when I feel really badly, because what it does it, it forces me to focus on something else, some other form of pain that I can control. I can pick at my skin for a while and make myself feel terrible, and then when I feel bad enough that I need to make myself feel better, I can stop and there's the illusion of released pressure.

I'm aware that picking at my skin is just another problem, and it may calm me down but it's also causing fine lines to form on my nose and chin, and pronounced pores, and...

We drank sparkling grape juice or sparkling cider while we decorated the tree.

I have an O'Doul's next to me right now. 

I've never had one before.

I've never had beer before.

My mom stopped drinking years ago but she likes to drink O'Doul's at family gatherings.

She had one at Thanksgiving yesterday.

This morning my sister and I made eggs with cheese, tomato, and spinach.

They were very good eggs.

We had salmon for dinner.

I tried to make a potato pancake with leftover mashed potatoes, but they were really milky to start with. When I fried them in the pan they just morphed into passable mashed potatoes.

It's so nice to be home and have free food everywhere.

Endless coffee. Toast. Eggs.

Ashley Judd just stabbed someone on television. 

Oh shit.

Stream of consciousness blog posting.

This is a big relief, really.

I should put effort into actual writing.

Ashley Judd is being groped by a bloody man on TV, but I have a feeling that Morgan Freeman will rescue her soon.

I'm going to buy a new sketchbook tomorrow!

The kitchen is right next to me and I'm not really hungry but maybe I should eat some food. 

I could eat food if I wanted to, and that's nice.

There are no Chipotles in my hometown.

That's probably for the best.

Ahhh! Morgan Freeman.

Good. 

I'm knitting a pink and gray cable knit scarf. I don't usually knit cable scarves. My mom and sister said I should try to make sweaters. I should, I've been talking about it for years.

Fisherman's sweaters.

Goals For The Immediate Future

1. Floss every night.
2.

Hustlin'

Turkey

Happy Thanksgiving!

I am currently lying in my bed in my childhood bedroom. 

It's cold upstairs and my sheets are cold so I tried to take my laptop under the covers to write, but it didn't work. I had to write on my side while lying on my right arm, and it was definitely warmer but also more uncomfortable.

I just sneezed.

Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving. 

It was nice, I guess. 

Was it nice? 

Yes.

I started almost crying at the table and had to look through the bottom of my water glass at the distorted image of a candle it created in order to stop the tears.

I was sitting with a table of people that I love, and I felt so disconnected. 

Sometimes I feel connected with people but most of life is spent in this sort of isolated place, where even if I am with other people, I don't feel like they really know me, and I feel like there's so much more inside everyone and inside myself, too, that I can't show or see. And that makes me cry sometimes.

I ate mashed potatoes and two bread rolls with butter, and a piece of pumpkin pie and vanilla bean ice cream and a weird "old fashioned" cookie with raisins and molasses in it.

It's nice to be home. My bed is starting to warm up now. 

I have cramps, sort of.

It would be nice to write about my family and people I know on here, but I think I'm uncomfortable with doing that right now. I don't know. It's also nice to just write about what I'm feeling and not get too specific about any of it.

My family is really nice to be around. 

I'm tired.

Sleepy tired achey heart tired.

Listening to Smog, "I Break Horses". 

I want to write a book.

The Patriots are kicking ass right now.

I drew a picture of a boy and girl in ballpoint pen and I like the way it came out.

Old friends break my heart.

Distance.

At work a few days ago a handsome man in shiny brown oxfords was flirting with me. I think he was flirting with me. He kept walking back over to talk to me. He said he has nephews that like curious George and he wanted to buy them a small George figurine but hadn't been able to find one anywhere. I showed him a George jack-in-the-box and puzzle but he said no, no. 

Anyway he was very attractive and it made me feel fluttery to have a beautiful man talk to me. It doesn't happen often enough.

Sweet Lord.

My shoulders hurt because I'm lying on my stomach and typing and for some reason that puts pressure on my shoulders, which causes them to ache.

The only thing that's bothering me is the thing I cannot say. 

I would like to reread Maira Kalman's The Principles of Uncertainty. I own it. It's around somewhere.

My mom said she would be really happy if she was given a jar of jam for Christmas. We were watching a Smuckers commercial on TV.

I had my teeth cleaned yesterday and the dental hygienist mentioned the word "precancerous" in passing, as in so-and-so could potentially become "precancerous."

No. My first grade teacher died from cancer. My elementary school art teacher. My guidance counselor with the newborn baby.

No nonononononon nonononon no.

What to listen to?

Most of the songs in my iTunes library are connected to different memories. 

Hello

"Not everything will be okay but some things will." - Maira Kalman

"When shit brings you down, you just say 'fuck it' and eat yourself some motherfucking candy." - David Sedaris

Crazy

I don't know how other artists can make things without feeling completely crazy during and after the process.

I worked on a drawing all day today, from about ten am to five thirty. I had to stop working on it in order to go to class.

During the drawing process, there was no real conscious thought. I felt inspired and enjoyed the way the picture was coming together, but I didn't make any conscious decisions about how to draw something, or what the character's facial expressions should be, or anything. It just happens.

I think about the podcast or song I happen to be listening to, and I am conscious of where my water containers and ink bottles are. I often forget to eat, when a drawing is going well...I'm super hungry in class right now.

So yeah, the process of creating art, good art, is almost completely uncontrollable, and largely unplanned, and free for me. I almost feel like I can't take any credit for it, because the pictures just come out, they come from somewhere that I can't name or control.

Now I feel wired and crazy and like an unreal person. Walking outside and being around other people after I've been working all day feels like being thrust into the spotlight and forced to dance, or something. I don't know.

And I love getting lost in a drawing. I love to give myself time to see what happens, and then to step back after a few hours and think, holy shit, I like this!

It's an amazing feeling.

And so, I think part of my art making process comes from some sort of inherent talent...my nana was an artist, and most people on my mom's side can draw well. But also, I have no real idea how or why I can draw the way that I do. It feels like it comes from a place outside myself.

And maybe that is why I feel so fucking crazy sometimes.

I love it. I don't want it to ever go away. I'm just saying.

I'm so hungry right now. Oh heavens. I need food. Oh dear.

When I get to my room I'm going o wr and then work on my drawing. I hope it comes out okay! It's weird to have to leave it in the middle of the process, but I was starting to get jittery from a mocha iced coffee and the colors I was choosing were starting to look strange.

And, scene.

Oh Joanna

dead poets

And we weep for all of the dead poets. We read their words, how hard they fought for love, for beauty, and now, how they lie in the ground, returned to the earth, the battle over but so too the sweetness, gone into death away from the solidity of the paper and fluorescent lights overhead and the ache to find the right word, to bring the moment to life, to give meaning to a brief performance on unstable land. We weep for the dead poets who have lived and fought and loved as we are living and fighting and loving, and have gone all the same to the body of the land, leaving behind shouts and cries as hands to hold.

A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg

---

          What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
          In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
          What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families
shopping at night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?

          I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
          I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops?  What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?
          I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
          We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

          Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in
an hour.  Which way does your beard point tonight?
          (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
          Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.

          Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
          Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Midnight

All of my words are getting swallowed up in my throat.

Do I want to be seen or do I want to hide from everyone?

If crying were a job I would be filthy, stinking rich.

I haven't watched the rest of Star Wars yet. I watched most of it but couldn't describe anything that happened.

I have a headache, in the front of my forehead.

Last night I lay in bed and listened to this song over and over and sobbed.

It was a good kind of crying, the "okay, I'm sad, fuck it, I'm going to cry" sort of crying. The crying where my heart literally aches in my chest and everything comes bubbling up to the front of my mind, and I can't write, and I can't read, or draw, or talk to anyone, I just cry, and it's a mode of expression in which I am very much part of myself.

I've been a crier as long as I can remember.

In sixth grade we watched a documentary about slavery, and I remember sitting in the dark classroom and crying. When the lights came up a kid asked if I was crying, and I said no, and he said "there are tears all over your face", and another guy, who I had a crush on, who had almond shaped brown eyes, told him to leave me alone.

There were lots of straight couples out on the street tonight.

I'm sure there always are, but I noticed it more tonight.

Men and women holding hands. Crossing the street. Eating dinner. One man's hand on a girl's waist.

Do I even want that?

Is that partly what I've been crying for my whole life?

My therapist said I should probably have a consult to see if I need medication. Sometimes I feel fine and I don't want to be medicated, because I probably don't need it, but other times I just feel like my heart is being...squeezed, that everything is wrong and leaving, and I wonder if that feeling is me or if it's something else.

In an hour and a half it will be midnight.

Tomorrow is the birthday of one of my best friends from childhood. We haven't spoken in years now. I wonder how much other people remember.

I feel like I need to take all of my organs out one by one and scrub them clean, and warm them up under a big yellow lamp.

Buttercups

The only medicine for the pain of something beautiful is more beauty.

The only medicine for the pain of love is more love.

Fuck me up against the wall.

Pull my hair. 

Yes, these are things I really want, if I say it that makes it true.

People don’t usually swear in front of me and I don’t know why.

The only medicine for the pain of loneliness is people.

The only medicine for the pain of people is loneliness.

No, wait! The only cure is love!

No, wait!

No one will be at my funeral.

I’m gonna live forever.

Isn’t that the point?

What have we been fighting for?

The cure for fighting is resolution.

Another cure for fighting is to simply grow tired.

I’m not tired, I’m so fucking tired I can’t sleep. 

You’ll forget me. 

No one will be sorry.

Leave them all behind.

No one likes me.

I love everyone. I hate them. I like three people, tops.

Tally up the Facebook likes. Dole them out at the golden gates.

Ahh, only 47 likes for you. You’re out. Our sincerest condolences.

We’re not dying.

How could we be dying when nothing ever happens?

Things happen, but how am I happening? How are you?

How are you?

Answer me.

I’M NOT WORRIED!

ARE YOU WORRIED?

KEEP ON SHOUTING!

WE MUST KEEP SHOUTING

IN ORDER TO STAY RELEVANT

AND HEARD

I EXIST

CAN YOU SEE ME?

Mother fucker, you have no idea!

Leave or be left! Leave or be left! Leave or be left!

Never going back to that house again, never said good bye.

I don’t know the telephone number.

I wouldn’t call you if I could.

There is no cure for me, or you, there is no cure for the in between.

I swear in my head all the time.

Liam Neeson

I don't understand Ewan McGregor's hair in Star Wars.

I just?

Why?

The one long braid?

Short and spiky on top?

I've never seen Star Wars and since I have a lot of work to do over the next week, I rented all three of them to watch. I'm half watching them, half not paying attention.

Internet is working again after the hurricane, so that is nice.

Keira Knightley is so sexy. I know she's like eleven in this movie, I mean as a woman. Her mouth.

I've bought magazines before just because she was on the cover of them, and pretty much every one of them have focused more on her beauty and weight and personal relationships than anything she might be interested in...even her acting.

I think the media takes that approach towards a lot of actresses, but it seems very pronounced with Knightley.

I think she's beautiful and a good actress and she has a nice laugh. I wonder what she does to relax, or what her favorite book is.

Maybe it's better for her for those things to remain private.

Hmm.

Liam Neeson in a poncho, dum dee dum dum dum.

Liam Neeson with long flowing hair, ha cha cha cha cha.

I'm trying to finish a scarf. My mom mailed me yarn in a box of hurricane supplies. The scarf is made up of brown, cream, red, and blue yarn.

It's really frickin' cold here. It's cold outside and it's often cold in my room. Last year I had a radiator that clicked on and made loud noises. It was like a living being against the wall of my room. And I lived on the bottom bunk, right next to it, so when it was cold outside I could hold my hands over the heater.

This new radiator is perfectly fine, but also very quiet. It works well, but cold air gets in through a leak in my window. The past few days I've been holding a pipe that connects from the radiator to the wall, when it's especially cold.

In the library today I sat down on a slightly warm radiator in the bathroom. It wasn't too hot and it wasn't too cold. I sat for a minute and ate half of a tuna, tomato, and lettuce sandwich.

I feel like Liam Neeson would be a very comforting person to talk to.

Picture him looking directly into your eyes and saying, "Everything is going to be okay, darling."

Then he puts a hand to your cheek and smiles softly, and one tear falls from your eye...

Campfire

Hey dudes. So, I happen to have a flickr page, where I sporadically post sketchbook pages and other weird drawings. It would be super awesome if anyone wanted to check it out, here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/samdean/.

Also, I definitely take commissions, so if anyone would like a picture of a bunny or perhaps a dancing horse, feel free to leave a comment on this blog, or email me at spickett42@gmail.com

In other news, I just ate some really gross mac and cheese! There is not really much else to say. My stomach feels like cats are rolling around in it.

xoxo

(drawing copyright Sam Dean Lynn, 2012.)

Response to Wolstonecraft

WOLSTONECRAFT

Okay, so Mary Wolstonecraft was a feminist who thought that the rights of all people, both genders, are important. Then she has a daughter, and what does her daughter do, but go on to write an influential, intelligent book that is still taught in schools today. 

I don't understand why sexism exists. Can I say that? I mean...when people treat women with love, and respect, and they allow (allow!) women to be educated and have equal rights and do what they want to do, then those women grow up to be better, more caring, more fulfilled people. They contribute more to society. 

Why on earth would anyone want to stop women, or men, or anyone from contributing all that they can to the world? Isn't it obvious that sexism just holds all of us back? What happened to Kant, and the golden rule? 

I guess a lot of it is fear...men in Wolstonecraft's time didn't want women to be equal to them because then women would, what...stop ironing their fucking shirts? Then men would have to work to reach their place in the world, and wouldn't automatically be given privileges and jobs and rights just because they had a penis? 

What sort of man would rather marry a subservient, meek woman whose only duty and goal was to care for him? Is that a real thing? Wouldn't most dudes want to marry and be around someone who thought for themselves?

Anyway, Wolstonecraft cautions women from becoming comfortable with being cared for. She advises not to rely too much on beauty, because beauty fades. 

Beauty definitely does fade, and when one's self worth is attached entirely to their looks, then it makes sense that they would be left with nothing. In the long run, the size of a person's waist or the number of eyelashes they have doesn't make them a lovable or unlovable person. And really, who wants to be loved by anyone who only loves them because their appearance is pleasing to their eyes?

It's undeniable that a lot of people form friendships and fall in love with other people because they are attracted to those people. Of course! Of course. And attraction is a wonderful thing. Speaking as a woman, it is nice to be called beautiful or whatever. But I would hate to be loved for the way I look and only the way I look, and part of it is because I spend all of my life looking out of my eyes at the world. Yes, I really live that way, and so, as people, we have to make our insides feel nice and we have to mean something, we have to love things and stand for things ourselves, in order to amuse ourselves and BECOME who we are. To be loved only for one's appearance is to be told that what is on the inside, what we have spent our lifetimes building and caring for, our very composition, is not as important as the size of our breasts or the way our mouth feels on someone else's. 

No. Attraction is a part of the package, a nice part of life, but it isn't everything. And to teach women or men that looks are the main focus, or even that they're a big focus, is dangerous.

Science is more important. Books are more important. Family, friends, dogs, climbing mountains. Etc.

I love this paragraph: "Would men but generously snap our chains, and be content with rational fellowship instead of slavish obedience, they would find us more observant daughters, more affectionate sisters, more faithful wives, more reasonable mothers - in a word, better citizens. We should then love them with true affecton, because we should learn to respect ourselves; and the peace of mine of a worthy man would not be interrupted by the idle canity of his wife, nor the babes sent to nestle in a  strange bosom, having never found a home in their mother's..."

Yes. Thank God for women like Wolstonecraft, and women like her. It's easy for me to sit at my computer and write about the importance of equality and everything, because women (and men) before me have already fought and died for the rights I consider obvious and necessary. I can't imagine a man assuming that he is better than me for no reason, just because of, as Wolstonecraft said, of "fate". But I'm lucky enough to find such an idea ludicrous. Wolstonecraft's female contemporaries must have been sort of shocked to read what she was writing, because of all the bullshit they had to take about being weaker, delicate, decorative flowers, who were supposed to raise children. 

How many more women who have lived and died before me could have made great contributions to society, if they were allowed to stand up for themselves, and were allowed access to books and...if they were allowed to have their voices heard? Why have so many women had to scream for their rights? And why are we still having to scream now, in order to not be forced to give birth if we don't want to, and so that we can be paid in fair wages, and so we can be seen as just as powerful as we ourselves are inherently, regardless of our genitalia?

Like, seriously?

How many women today will die without ever realizing their full potential? And I don't mean "potential" as far as success or monetary wealth or fame or anything, but success as far as becoming what we want to be, and living the life we could create for ourselves if other people weren't telling us "no"?

And of course men face challenges too, and people of color face challenges, people without money face challenges, but speaking as a woman, I feel...enraged that any other woman should be kept down for no good reason. 

As Amy Poehler once said, "DON"T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!"

Yeah, Wolstonecraft seems like a really brave lady, and the world is better for her existence, if only because she raised an intelligent daughter and probably had a good effect on others who met her, and because she took a stand for the good of future generations. 

"For man and woman, truth, if I understand the meaning of the word, must be the same; yet the fanciful female character, so prettily drawn by poets and novelists, demanding the sacrifice of truth and sincerity, virtue becomes a relative idea, having no other foundation than utility, and of that utility en pretend arbitrarily to judge, shaping it to their own convenience."

Yay, Wolstonecraft. Preach.

Homework

Doin' some homework and thinkin' about eatin' a burrito!

Also listening to the Decemberists. Check out that beard.

I met Meloy and his wife, Carson Ellis, at a book signing. I said I loved them and thought they were awesome, I apologized for being awkward and weird (for some reason, who knows what I was talking about) and Carson said they liked weird people, and Colin said, "what?"

Mmmm, burritos. Guacamole and sour cream.

Also...go Obama!

Canary

Today I learned that Rene Magritte would apparently wake up every morning at 8:30 am. He would then put on his three piece suit, and work in his living room until 5:30.

I am feeling very tired.

Tired although not unhappy.

Tiredness, or at least the statement "I am tired," is often used to signify that something is wrong, isn't it?

After a long walk someone will say "I'm tired," or they'll say "I'm tired" when they're caught in a fight that they don't want to be involved with.

Someone will be invited to go out and do something, and they will say, as an excuse, "No thanks, I'm really tired."

So in all honesty I am a little bit sad right now.

I wonder what Rene Magritte's living room looked like.

I really don't know much of anything about him, or his work.

I know about the pipe.

I saw a painting of his tonight, of a ship on a blue ocean, and the ship looks like it is made of waves.

My teacher was talking a little bit about what is "reality" and what isn't.

I thought of Tim O'Brien's book The Things They Carried.

Stones in a soldiers stomach.

My teacher said tonight that he can't remember what he did yesterday, but he remembers some dreams that he had forty years ago.

I don't know if he meant dreams that he had had while he was asleep, or dreams about things that he wanted to happen.

I'm thinking that I would like to cut all of my hair off and begin wearing three piece suits.

We also watched the Dali movie, I can't remember the title, something about a chien and a word that begins with an "a", the film that the Decemberists reference in one of their songs.

Anyway there is a woman in the middle of the street in one scene, and she has short hair and she's stunningly beautiful.

I am not stunningly beautiful.

I was just reminded of that scene in The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind when Joel and Clementine are in bed together and he tells her "you're pretty, you're pretty, you're pretty," while he kisses her face.

I am sort of embarrassed for wanting something like that to happen to me...

It seems like such a girly thing to want, and I am such an insecure girl, that's how I've been, how I've grown up, how some people could describe me, but then I tell myself that it isn't girly to want love.

I used to sleep over my grandmother's house, my nana's house, and she would tell me stories sometimes. I remember that she said that her father, my great grandfather, used to always wear three piece suits and hats.

I wonder what he would think if he had a great granddaughter who cut off all of her hair and wore suits and hats that he could have borrowed.

Rene Magritte, my great grandfather, and me, in our three piece suits.

I picture us in a room with curtains, sitting around a small table. There is a yellow canary in a tall, standing wire bird cage. Magritte is either watching the bird or looking out the window. My great grandfather will make polite conversation and check his watch discreetly. I will with my left foot on my right knee. We will talk about the weather and drink tea.

I don't picture my great grandfather as being a very affectionate man. I have never heard him described in that way. My nana said that he was a faithful husband, who worked in order to support his family. Suits and hats. Routine.

I picture Rene Magritte as a man I could fall in love with.

Even his name, it tastes like butter to pronounce.

Could I ever be with another artist?

Am I an artist, myself?

Yes!

A painting of a pipe is not a pipe, it is only the illusion of a pipe.

The words we use to describe ourselves are not fact, just words.

Is that a bit of a stretch?

"Just words?"

What I mean is that I may call myself an "artist", but does that make me an artist? If Rene met me and saw my work and spat at my feet, would I still call myself an artist? Did he call himself an artist? What would my great grandfather have called himself?

"We are what we pretend to be, and so we must be careful what we pretend to be."

I am forever trying to define things and put people in boxes, so that I can better understand them.

I am an artist and I'm not an artist, I'm a girl and not exactly just a girl, Magritte and my great grandfather are dead, but they are not exactly dead, are they?

Why am I writing about them now?

"Just words?"

No!

I don't believe that.

I'm in love with words.

My face feels flushed.

Hurricane Sandy

Sitting at a cyber cafe. A cyber cafe? Sure. A cafe with internet, is what I'm saying. 

It's cold outside and I'm wearing sweat pants and penny loafers and a t-shirt and a knit sweater with trees on it, with a huge $10 leather jacket over all of it. I'm currently bleeding from a FEMININE PLACE, which accounts for the sweatpants. Also it is cold outside, I mentioned that right?

They're my mom's old sweatpants, black with a white stripe going up the sides. 

My hair is big and curly right now and it's been all over the place. I see a woman in a knit hat and a quilted white jacket with a furry hood taking a box from her car outside. A man in a brown jacket just shut the trunk. 

My neighborhood was affected (effected?) by Hurricane Sandy. I made a list of words during the worst of it, a short account (a very short account) of stuff that I was seeing. 

Also I talked to my sister on the phone last night for a very long time, and we got caught up. She's a very honest person, or it sounds that way anyway. She tries to be self-aware and she tries to express herself clearly to certain people, at certain times. It was a great relief to talk to her.

Anyway, here's the list, jokesters!

(Also, hope anyone who might be reading this is having a good day.)

Hurricane Sandy:

• cold nose
• two sweaters
• no traffic lights
• no power
• dark at 7pm
• cops direct traffic
• constant sirens
• no internet
• no phone service
• free muffins!
• free water!
• free orange spice tea!
• candles in shops
• Emma's Dilemma Cafe
• Gramercy Star
• Bread & Butter
• sign in and out of building
• shattered revolving door
• no classes
• $8 sandwich
• $20 from mom
• $8 from auntie
• Other People podcasts
• White Album
• lesbian dreams
• Disney princesses
• no running water
• toilets on one floor only
• free pizza at 3
• embroidered sweater
• Lydia Davis
• internet and phone near Union
• no Charlie Brown
• sad Halloween
• no candy
• purpley dress with flowers
• two bottles cranberry juice
• cold in the hallway
• (a person who shall remain nameless here)
• "animation tidbits"
• vet clinic still open (please knock)
• food thrown out on Morton Williams sidewalk (bags of fruit, cartons of juice...)
• tubs of melting ice cream
• "down to my last glass of lukewarm juice"
• dancing traffic directing NYPD
• Doc Marten blisters
• blue bathing suit bottoms
• "welcome to the insane asylum"
• Bubble Blaster
• phone in toilet

Fin.

Sandy

Hurricane supplies:

one can of cheddar pringles
one expensive bottle of mocha Starbucks stuff
one bottle of water
one macintosh apple.

I have my window open and the air is cold and the sky is sort of gray.

I went in to CVS after work to buy stuff and most of the water was gone.

My manager emailed everyone on staff to say that the store would be closed tomorrow, and possibly Tuesday as well. He ended the email by writing, "miracles happen during hurricanes, so keep your eyes open."

I love that idea, but the fact of the matter is that I'll be sitting alone in my room for all of tonight and most of tomorrow, unless I venture outside.

I'm sick of being alone. IT SUCKS.

Other people were talking about how they were going to eat dinner at a friend's house and then be driven home after, and other people are going to play drinking games for the length of the storm. A friend of mine told me to "stay safe during the hurricane", and I know that she'll be home with her family, where there will probably be candles and board games and plenty of food.

Anyway, I'm done whining now. If the power doesn't go out here I'll be able to spend time reading, maybe writing, drawing, sewing, watching movies. That isn't so bad. Not bad at all!

I just wish I wasn't alone. I am alone because I feel alone, to paraphrase something Jonathan Safran Foer wrote. Is "paraphrase" the right expression?

I kind of hope the power does go out at some point.

Lots of sleeping.

Womp

Lying in my bed. It's 6:17. It's dark in my room, except for my skeleton lights. I'm wearing the dress I wore today, the dress I've worn for the past few days and slept in the past few nights.

A bit gross, huh? I'm not catatonic right now, I could change my clothes. I guess I'm just lazy.

Today has flown by. Time passes more quickly, now, somehow. It's not that it's better spent, it's just that I barely even have to check the clock through out the day, because the hours carry themselves along fine on their own. Time never drags anymore.

Although I can't say that time has ever really "dragged on" for me. I usually become absorbed in my own thoughts, and so maybe the rapid passing of time has been normal and will always be normal.

I'm waiting for a phone call from my mother.

I talked to my sister for nearly an hour earlier this afternoon. She sounded good. I started laughing about something and couldn't stop for a few minutes.

I think it's because I don't laugh that much now. That sounds awful, but it's sort of true!

It's not that I don't feel happy, it's just that I live alone, I am essentially friendless, not really but effectively, sort of, and I don't often find occasion to belly laugh.

When I'm home I laugh more. I laugh at work. I guess I just don't laugh so much because I'm alone so much, and laughing alone for large amounts of time might be characterized as insanity.

I finished a book of ghost stories today, and also ate a tuna, lettuce, cheese, and pickle sandwich. I painted a bad, but not very bad, oil painting. I felt frustrated at the bank and did not clean my room. I did not want to be submerged in large crowds.

I considered walking to a park this afternoon but then I talked to my sister on the beanbag chair in the corner of my room and didn't feel like walking to the park, even though the sky was gray and it was not raining and the air was cool.

Words

I'm absolutely, positively obsessed with the song Dark Turn of Mind by Gillian Welch. It's from her album The Harrow and the Harvest.

My school's library is very nice. They have a wide selection of cds and dvds. Students can rent three dvds and three cds for a week, each, and we can take out books for as long as we want to. I just rented The Village (gorgeous) and Paranormal Activity (insufficiently scary) and all of the Beatles cds they had. It's a glorious, glorious system. The inside of the library is painted a neutral color, but then it has splashes of red and purple, too. Sweet, sweet splashes.

Anyway, I'm listening to Dark Turn of Mind right now. I've spent the afternoon (after my figure drawing class) listening to Youtube videos of Jonathan Safran Foer giving talks. He is fascinating! Lovely! I haven't read any of his books yet, but I really want to now, after learning a bit about him.

I know that he is married to the writer Nicole Krauss, who I am a massive fan of. She wrote Great House and The History of Love. I would say that They History of Love is one of my favorite books ever.

My only tattoo references a part of that story, and I can quote lines of it from memory, such is the extent of my adoration:

"Part of me is made of glass."

"Nobody makes me happier and nobody makes me sadder than you."

The book reminds me of someone, too. My idea of someone. That's part of it. I love the closing lines, too, but I'll refrain from writing them all out, and potentially ruining the surprise for someone.

Anyway, I intended to write a post about an idea of Nietzsche's that Safran Foer alluded to in a New York Times article written about Foer.

Safran Foer says, "Am I haunted by the story? Of course. The most haunting detail for me is that we don't know the name of the baby that was killed -- my mother's half sister. Maybe it goes back to Nietzsche's idea that everything we have words for is dead in our hearts..."

It must be why we still name our pets, our children, inanimate objects, sometimes - because they exist and are special in themselves and are also part of our own stories. Names serve as identification, identification combined with affection and history and identity and choice. Of course that idea is a little ironic, because names our, after all, forced on us by our parents. We don't have much choice. Even then, they would probably arrive with a sense of good will. Then there are names which are forced on people for a different reason, like the people who arrived in Ellis Island and had their last names changed. Those names have a different weight, a different color, but even so, they are no less drenched in history and identity and story and hopefully some echo of affection, and a new sense of a new sort of...personhood. 

Foer was saying that he can't forget the woman and her child, especially, maybe, the child...can't lay her to rest, because he doesn't have words for her, and sometimes when we name things, it is both a sign of affection, and proof that that thing belongs and exists. And once we know that something exists, once we can point to it and name it, it may then be easier to let go of, because we know exactly what is being left behind.

For example, say you fell in love with a man (or woman) named Charlie. Charlie likes cooking spaghetti for you and rubbing your back when it aches. Then one day Charlie sleeps with your sister and becomes a drug addict and an alcoholic and punches a baby all in the same day. So you think to yourself, after much crying, and attention to the baby, that you've gotta let Charlie go. You could call him (or her) on the telephone and say good bye, Charlie. Good riddance.

On the other hand, say you're walking home from work alone and a man (or woman) comes up to you and taps you on the shoulder and you see immediately that they're beautiful, glorious - they have the face that you immediately want to kiss and cradle like an angora rabbit. What if they said, "I just saw you, and excuse me for bothering you, but may I just tell you that you look wonderful tonight, right now." And then they turned and walked away, down the street, and you blushed but you didn't run after them.

That person would be at least as hard to forget as Charlie, because the imaginary person could be thought of as everything you want and will never have. They are infinite possibility, and their lack of personality and identifiable name allows you to project your own fantasies onto them (maybe you've always wanted to date a fisherman named Redford, or something) and so thusly that imaginary person is perfect, because they're your imaginary person, and there's no reason for them not to be perfect. Anything can happen.

A similar experience happened to me with a woman wearing green tights not too long ago...

Anyway.

Nietzsche's idea of things being "dead in our hearts" hit home with me, for reasons that I can't exactly explain.

It reminded me of this passage from ts eliot's East Coker:

"In order to arrive there,
to arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way go ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not."

So...Eliot and Nietzsche both suggest that when one can articulate their feelings, and make sense of them, and see them for what they are, then the source of those feelings must be, at that point, dead. In a sense, it sounds like people realize who they are and what they have too late.

Does that idea apply to love? I guess that is what I'm really wondering now - the question almost always comes back to love, for me. If I can say that I love someone or something, surely that does not mean that my feelings are dead for them, and only remembered? But maybe it is so, because relationships and people change every day...

Maybe Safran Foer, Eliot, and Nietzsche would say that my statement above is too broad. Maybe it would be more truthful to say that once someone can define something exactly, and find little magic in it, then that thing is dead in their hearts.

But that too sounds wrong - because my sister and I watched a documentary narrated by Stephen Hawking in which he described some of the mysteries of space, like black holes. He also spoke a bit about the division between religion and science - Hawking essentially said, at one point, that there is just as much magic in science, in knowing, as there is in "magic" and stories and ignorance. He didn't say that in so many words, but essentially he believed that pure facts and explanations behind the workings of things make them more beautiful to witness, instead of less.

That coincides with part of Mariko Tamaki's graphic novel Skim (illustrated by Jillian Tamaki). At one point Skim says that Romeo and Juliet is an okay story, but she thought it would have been a better and more interesting story if the lovers had gotten over "their shit", and figured it out, and figured out a way to love each other.

And I agree with her! There's dark beauty in tragedy but also a deep sense of...wholeness one can feel when something just...works out.

So, in a relationship that is working, if I were to know everything about someone, then I would only love them more. They would not become dead to me. It does seem that that happens, though, in many marriages...the "spark" or whatever fades...what was once extraordinary can feel commonplace.

But no! If I am being optimistic...the more I know about something I am meant to love, the more I will love it. The better we will be. The closer to life we will be. The more we learn about space and the workings of the universe the closer we will be to real, honest magic, magic that we still cannot explain or take credit for, but can trust in its honesty.

I'm currently listening to ts eliot read The Four Quartets aloud. I've never heard him read them before. My favorite poem is East Coker, but I haven't read or listened to the other three very closely, yet.

Also, I met a dog named June yesterday.

It's 2:56 in the morning. I can't sleep. I haven't tried to sleep. I'm lying in bed listening to the faucet dripping. The green, orange, and purple skeleton lights I bought from Duane Reade are glowing from beneath my bed.

My bed is on stilts, sort of. I don't know exactly how to describe it. It's made of wood, with railings all along it. I have a thick white mattress that I spilled black ink on a few days ago. Beneath the bed is a wooden desk, where my typewriter sits, along with a hot pink lamp and bits of paper.

I almost always sleep with my window open, until it gets too cold, that is. It may be because when I was younger, I would open my three bedroom windows and sleep with the curtains blowing in the breeze and the soft sounds from the street.

There is traffic here, of course, but it sounds muffled now. Sometimes I hear sirens, but not too often.

I started, and finished, The Dangers of Proximal Alphabets by Kathleen Alcott today. It is an incredibly beautiful book.

I just finished Leaving The Atocha Station by Ben Lerner yesterday. It is beautiful, too, but I think a lot of his ideas may be a bit over my head. Maybe not. Maybe that's a cop out. I loved reading about the man weeping in front of the painting, potentially experiencing a "profound experience of art". I liked that Lerner included the banalities of life: meals, driving, walking around, meeting people, wondering what other people are thinking. I really liked his book, but maybe I just wasn't focused enough while reading it, or something.

Kathleen Alcott writes in a way that I would love to be able to write. Her writing just...is appealing in a way that made the book feel like it was written especially for me. One of those books. It had plot twists that were devastating but believable, and interesting subject matter...Anyway I loved it. A girl in my art class today commented on it and picked it up to read the inside flap, and the polite thing for me to do would be to offer to lend it to her. I didn't, though. I'd lend it to my mom or sister, if they wanted, because it would still be in the house...

The bones in my fingers just cracked violently when I coaxed them to. The background of my computer is a black-and-white photo of Ernest Hemingway wearing glasses and sitting in something that looks like a bathtub. I have no idea where the picture came from, or who took it, but it's been my setting for months.

It's 3:05 in the morning. Last night around 1 am I heard someone banging on a door in the hallway. They would knock multiple times, loudly, and then say, "GEORGE!" Knock, knock, knock, knock knock. "GEORGE!"

It went on for at least five minutes, and I laid in bed, half hoping that someone would tell the knocker to be quiet, half wanting to open my door and hiss, "hey, shut the fuck up!" Then George, whoever he was, opened the door, and the knocker said "you left your keys in the door!" George must have mumbled something and the knocker spoke in a loud voice. He almost sounded drunk. He said, "hey, wait, wait a minute!" and there were a few more moments of speech and then quiet again.

The light from the skeleton lights is orange on my wall and the smoke alarm is blinking its red light periodically and sleep still feels far away. I don't know what time daylight arrives here, but it can't be that far off. I once heard that 3 am is called the witching hour.

A little red house

First Post

I have two holes in the right leg of my blue jeans. They're new, I think. One  hole is right at the crotch, and I can see my teal underwear through it. The other is slightly further down my leg, at the thigh.

I went through a phase where I stopped wearing jeans. It was more comfortable to just wear a dress. But, I've started wearing blue jeans again. My watercolor teacher said that I need to stop wearing dresses to class, because "sitting side saddle" puts me at a weird angle to the paper when I paint, and to sit and paint cross legged will earn my a crooked back.

I wore jeans quite often when I was younger - in elementary school and middle school. They felt like camouflage. I had one pair of jeans that my mom bought me from Abercrombie. They were faded, very pale blue denim with intentional rips and shiny green rhinestones on the back pockets. They cost about $80, which I would never pay for jeans today. I wore them until I grew out of them, and then they were passed down to my little sister, so I guess we got our money's worth.

I never really feel sexy in jeans, though. I'm not one of those girls that looks...sexy in jeans. They're just comfortable. These days I'm usually either at class or at work or walking around, and so there is no one I feel that I need to impress. No one seems to care if I look good in jeans or not, and I don't think I want them to. It makes me feel crazy when there's some boy or whatever that I want to look good for, because more often than not they probably don't notice. It doesn't matter.

These jeans have ink stains, and pizza oil stains, and white gesso stains, and colored ink stains. They're a bit large for me at the waist but the legs are a perfect length. I forget where I bought them from - probably H&M. I'll keep them until they fall apart, but it is tempting to pack up most of my clothes and bring them to the Salvation Army.