"I went back to the ocean today, With my books and my papers I went to the rocks by the ocean, But the weather changed quickly, oh the ocean said, "What are you trying to find? I don't care, I'm not kind, I've bludgeoned your sailors, I've spat out their keepsakes, Oh it's ashes to ashes, but always the ocean." But the ocean can't come to this town, this town is a song about you. You don't know how lucky you are, you don't know how much I adore you, You are the welcoming back from the ocean. And the ones that can know you so well are the ones that can swallow you whole. I have a good and I have an evil, I thought the ocean, the ocean thought nothing, You are the welcoming back from the ocean." -'The Ocean,' Dar Williams What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? I don't think in words and when I try to explain all I can think of is metaphors which again you'll ask me to explain. My mind feels calm and quiet, but not completely still, it is like the movement of the tide and crashing waves, it is movement and progression, but slowly, almost unnoticable, but still moving in the background. I need to get back to the water. Swim until my body is moving without my having to think, and my thoughts just flowing like the water, without subject, thesis, plot, or any words at all. I want to go cover canvases with color, but here I am bound by beign a word kid at an art school, I have no right to dream in colors here. I would feel a need to be advised, like the dorm kids who bring me their papers to proof read. I will paint surrounded by bookshelves. I want to go to the coffeehouse where they won't let me pay for coffee. I will spend days entertaining Em over crossword puzzles, Scrabble with Star Wars themes, and Pick in english and badly spelled french, card games with mix-&-match rules. Flirt with old men over Shakespearian quotes and Joni Mitchell lyrics, who call me "doll," or "chit," and so not blanch when I call them "Mac," "Dude-Man," "hippy/writer/photo/painter/old dude." I will send letters to make everyone in the east question my sanity, but still look forward to recieving mail postmarked in Poulsbo, Bremerton, Seattle, Canada, regardless of the sanity of the sender. (I am now accepting mailing adresses for the summer. *grin*)

to be unafraid? to break through the egg shell, a whole worl inside ,yet had seemed so completely enclosed. both a limit on reality, but also a safe place. a sad, boring place. to be a baby mouse in the world, fuzzy naked pink skin bared to the sky and everything under it. blinded by the day, a mole who had never known to hope for anything but more dirt. I'm trying to remember who I was before I was afraid. you'd like her.

"and i am here to exercise my freedom of choice i passed their handheld signs went through their picket lines they gathered when they saw me coming they shouted when they saw me cross i said why don't you go home just leave me alone i'm just another woman lost you are like fish in the water who don't know that they are wet as far as i can tell the world isn't perfect yet ...i am growing older waiting in this line some of life's best lessons are learned at the worst times under the fierce fluorescent she offered her hand for me to hold she offered stability and calm ...on that sterile battlefield that sees only casualties never heroes my heart hit absolute zero ...they keep pounding their fists on reality hoping it will break but i don't think there's a one of them leads a life free of mistakes" 'lost woman song'-Ani Difranco I'm realizing I've been avoiding this story since it came to past. It didn't even occur to me until you asked what I used to ask about everything. "why not?" It is my story because it is her's and the gender makes is half universal. I still haven't heard from her in months, and I'm always worried that when I call after a while that her answering machine won't say her name anymore, that the emails instead of being ignored or quickly, pithily answered will bounce back, 'user unknown.' If these keeps up too long I'll drive to her parents' house and get half-answers which are better than no answers at all. I'll have nearly four months to find her again, for her so she won't try and carry everything alone, and for me because she never stopped being brave and she reminds me how to be brave again. Janus can save herself if she gets together. So I guess what I'm saying is thanks for reminding me that life is stories. Funny I used to live by that and sometimes I still forget.

No sleep. But there's lots of coffee. My jugular vein is jumping under my hand in a disconcerting way that is making me consider cutting back on my drug of choice for the summer, or once these fucking term papers are over.

I want to go blow bubbles in a pretty graveyard. Alice, and Strawberry Hill, and the rest are important, I will take you there, and try to be silent enough, but also say enough, to show you what I mean because I don't go swimming here, and the ocean here is your's not mine. Last time I felt fearless I was told I was repressing my sadness, that my energy was anger under pressure, but I'd like to get back there. I have a habit of living in fear, I'm sure I'll find new things to break over. It's not pessimism, it's statistics, which isn't to say it's written in the stars. Although if it was you couldn't read them from the inside of a city anyway. I'm trying to remember to speak up. I'd like you to hear me. I guess that means I have to give you the chance to.

you're emo!

How can I label you?
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are these kind of results ironic or just sad? (fuck if I know)

You are every goth-kids dream!

Which Ultimate Beautiful Woman are You?
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"think i'm going for a walk now i feel a little unsteady i don't want nobody to follow me xept maybe you ...i could do a lot of things and i do" -Ani Words are so much easier, without eyes, voices. I'm not sure I would have fought if you'd been in the room. It's so much easier to say what I mean in text. I don't get so screwed up by not wanting to hurt people and being afraid. In real I'm not sure I would have said anything at all and I would have let you keep comparing and just carried it around in me, a nice little dagger for you to twist a little to see if I'm trustable or whatever, whenever you liked. I'm pretty good at it. I'm not sure why I told you that. I'd rather you believed in me, but you already do too much. And by too much I wonder if I mean not enough...[Do I contradict myself? well, then I contradict myself."-fucking Whitman] But I keep thinking about that, that I wouldn't have said anything, and you would have just kept on until my head made you into one more dark thing for me to run from. This is a problem with my head. Way to pick my song, doll... I used to drive around for hours screaming that, and all the rest, but then you probably knew that. If there's one thing I hate about this city is there's no where for me to scream and without being heard and very few places to cry without being seen, it makes me want to scream all the time. But it's funny cause when I get to the ocean I stop needing to. You're right about the shifting answer, but if my mind was insulated... no, I don't like that thought at all. Don't ask me for easy answers I know very few true ones, maybe none. To clarify: play nice, please. [I swear I had more to say but words aren't working.]

Is there somewhere where people aren't falling apart at the seams over nothing, over everything? I sometimes wish I could remember how I used to not feel anything and it was easy, really, really easy. But then you're not sure if you're alive or dead and if you're not sure there's not much point anymore. But this isn't a disappearing day, there's too much I want to keep today, but I can wish I didn't care so it could be a disappearing day. Not that that would help anything. I hate it when I cry (I'm not now, don't assume me). I hate watching people when it's not the sort of thing where I can offer my shoulder or my ear. I don't even hate it, I just hate feeling helpless. The only thing I'm sure of is helping people and when I can't even do that it's all fucked and I can't help anyone here. When you're falling apart and he's yelling and you need help I can't drive and pick you up, put on your favorite sad song and drive until you want to talk and pull over by the ocean to listen to the waves and the night. I can't protect anyone from anything here. I can't help, unless an ear alone will do, then I'm a phone call away, but I won't even be able to wipe your tears or see that look that means you have something you aren't saying. (Though I have to say I'm glad you can't see my eyes. I'm tired of listening to myself.)

I'm no heroine -Ani Difranco

you think i wouldn't have him unless i could have him by the balls you think i just dish it out you don't think i take it at all you think i am stronger you think i walk taller than the rest you think i'm usually wearing the pants just 'cause i rarely wear a dress well... when you look at me you see my purpose, see my pride you think i just saddle up my anger and ride and ride and ride you think i stand so firm you think i sit so high on my trusty steed let me tell you i'm usually face down on the ground when there's a stampede i'm no heroine at least, not last time i checked i'm too easy to roll over i'm too easy to wreck i just write about what i should have done i just sing what i wish i could say and hope somewhere some woman hears my music and it helps her through her day 'cause some guy designed these shoes i use to walk around some big man's business turns a profit every time i lay my money down some guy designed the room i'm standing in another built it with his own tools who says i like right angles? these are not my laws there are not my rules i'm no heroine i still answer to the other half of the race i don't fool myself like i fool you i don't have the power we just don't run this place

where are you? I've been spinning in circles all day sure I saw you out the window, at the corner of my eye, and I keep turning toward you but I just keep turning. where are you? I didn't mean to fall like this. later keeps being now. I thought there would be more time. if anyone is nursing an addiction than surely I am. So it goes.

Friday afternoon and there after

I went with Tey to Penn to meet with her boy because I was afraid of waiting around for someone I wasn't sure would come or was already gone. She is good company, makes me smile even when I don't have any intention of being amused by anything of the world, and I love the way she smiles when she sees her boy it reminds me that I really do still believe in stuff like that. I left them for Strawberry Field to people watch and think. I watched a woman in a suit lay a rose on the plaque crying as if she was Ono and Lennon died yesterday. There were two bike messengers off duty (maybe) getting hazy off whatever they kept refilling their soda bottles with out of paper-bagged bottles. I watched a Scandinavian man look up "imagine" in a translation dictionary. I left some of my own heart debris. (why not.) Visited Alice. Read all the plaques again. Tried to recite the Jabberwocky and got schooled by a middle aged suit with a very small daughter who was still appreciative of my bubbles. I read half of "Missing Angel Juan" while watching kids and adults swarm over Alice whilst I perched on a wall. It got darkish, coldish too. The Met is my sanctuary. I like chilling out in the room with an egyptian temple inside, and all the religious stuff from everywhere. There's a room with yellow walls, two mirrors, and old roped-off chairs all around. I couldn't explain where it is but I can always find it sooner or later. Something about that room...I always feel as though if I were brave enough to put my hand up to touch one of the mirrors I'd go through like Alice and it would still be the room but beyond that everything would be just different enough to make all the difference. I never touch the mirrors. The first time I came to New York, my first fifteen minutes in the Met I beelined for the Moderns. When I saw the Picasso's, and Giacometti's, Gris's, and Chagall's, I knew if I could come back to stay that even being on the wrong coast alone would be okay if I could just sit and look at those and put myself back together. And so sometimes I do. The Met closed but the Skyline is always open, and their egg salad is good, tomato slices thick, pickles bite back, coffee is divine (with free refills), and the waiters and waitresses call me 'dear,' or 'hun.' And so it was good, especially that point where I'm not sure how long I've been sitting there mumbling to myself and scribbling or how many cups of coffee I've had. In other news: apparently I don't swear as convincingly as I once did, and have a trust issue, maybe two. (No shit.) ... I finally got out to Rockaway today. The Atlantic is not the Pacific, but it is an ocean, so I guess it'll do. *shrug* My mom just called. I am tired enough to remain docile. I keep reminding myself she'll be gone for a full month this summer. I think Nana is worried about me, she sounded it a bit on the phone. I need to call her more often. Mom mentally drains me of patience and energy in maintaining it and I forget to reserve some to let Nana know I'm some kind of happy. She wants me to be happy, to be loved and to love, but I'm never sure how much she really wants to know. I can't read her over the phone. I'm bad at people.

note to self: being diplomatic and kind seems to be not working, at least vaguely considering being a asshole. F*ck, but then I'll feel like an asshole. I guess that only works if you don't think about it. "Nobody is creepy from the inside." -Neil Gaiman I think the blue elephant is laughing at me, but maybe Tam Lin is hiding behind where I close my eyes. I can hope. "The words got into bed with her, wove into her dreams, then woke her up and would not let her go back to sleep." -Michele Roberts

Whhheee! Tey, the Amazon, & I went to St. Mark's last night. I'd never been there before which seems pretty amazing since I used to wander in that area all the time first semester. Only now I realize I wasn't paying attention to stops on the subway and consequently have no idea what stop we got off on other than it was on the L line. I probably wasn't the best of company anyway what with all the people to watch and scribbling ideas for my narrative in my pocket book. But it was fun. Tey and Zon are hilarious, although I kinda feel like a tool with them cause ususally I'm not in the mood to contribute, just to listen, very much not pulling my weight in the laughter factory department. In class yesterday Nark chewed me out for my mumbeled commentary. I'm sure I blushed madly. I wanted to take off my shoe and throw it at him. He can feel validated by sharing his views throught the class. But I just want to be a thinker, not an evangelist. Jeez! And then Big had to go and F-ing agree with him! I knew he would, problably thought it was F-ing hilarious! I need allies, dammit! Tey's going home this weekend. *does a little dance* Which means loudly listening to non-eighties/new wave/glamster music very loudly and sleeping at strange times (not that I sleep at normal times anymore) and talking to myself as a lubricant for thought process without feeling like a bloody lunatic.* I will also teach at least one, possibly two, people how to play Pick, because it is so good and Em thrashed me for slow spelling when I was home for spring break, which is hightly unacceptable. *from this no one should infer that I: a) do not adore Tey. b) do not adore eighties/new wave/glamster music (but there are other fishies in the sea). c) am not actually a lunatic.

"Virtue" -Ani Difranco virtue is relative at best there's nothing worse than a sunset when you're driving due west and i'm afraid that my love is gonna come up short there is no there there i guess i'm scared cuz i want to have good news to report every time i come up for air now i'm cruising through a chromakey blue sky and i know that in an hour or three the sun is gonna be in my eyes and i know that sometimes all i can see is how i feel like the whole world is on the other side of a dirty windshield and i'm tryin to see through the glare yes i'm struggling just to see what's there the one person who really knows me best says i'm like a cat yeah the kind of cat that you just can't pick up and throw into your lap no, the kind that doesn't mind being held only when its her idea yeah, the kind that feels what she decides to feel when she is good and ready to feel it and now i am prowling through the backyard and i am hiding under the car i have gotten out of everything i've gotten into so far i eat when I am hungry and i travel alone and just outside the glow of the house is where i feel most at home but in the window you sometimes appear and your music is faint in my ears ... If I don't have to be tied down it's so easy to be free. (hows that for profound?) I guess what I mean is thank you to everyone who has been patient enough to wait it out until I'm comfortable enough to be exactly and only myself with them.

Note to self: if you mess up, the world will not end, in fact the world will probably not even notice. Phew.

I had a very crazy dream: Tey and I somehow got slipped a third roommate. Neither of us were pleased, but after we got over it she seemed okay by me. She would leave us notes in very tiny script about how to live together easily, specifically things about her that she'd randomly decide to reveal to us, but referring to herself as demons, angels, etc. ("FYI: The seraphim of the seventh order is fond of humming the end of Beethoven's Ninth at the top of her lungs to help her fall asleep. Please disregard at all costs." or "FYI: The succubus of the first order is annoyed with the ongoing war prattle and would like everyone to refrain from refering to the existence of the war from this point on.") But if we did completely disregard her notes she didn't seem to care on way or the other. Sometimes though she would change from one exchange to another. She had a pair of black wings made out of faux feathers that you could tie to your back. She wore them out sometimes which I think Tey thought was silly, but I liked. One evening seeing that I admired them she would tell me to borrow her whenever I like, to not even bother asking (which I couldn't bring myself to do for fear of damaging them in someway.) Then the next night she would come in and I would have paused to stroke a feather with my finger and she'd scream at me not to fucking touch them. She tended to get a lot of warnings for starting fires from our cooking food in the communal kitchen and making plaster fall out of ceilings with the bass on her stereo. She was eventually kicked out of the hall. She didn't come to move her own stuff, movers came and were able to pick out her things from ours without question or even any indication that we were in the room. After they were gone, Tey and I looked at each other, shrugged, she asked how I felt about listening to Pulp. I said that sounded alright. She put them on and we both went back to writing papers. I can't remember what she looked like, I just remember thinking when she moved in that she looked like she'd be entertaining as far as enigmatic individuals go.

If it's warm enough to rain and not snow it's warm enough to walk around campus at night. The way the street lights looked felt like walking to the ferry after concerts in the city, made me think of Pedro. He was just this sweet rolly-polly old mexican-indian homeless guy that was always around the docks or Pioneer Square. He always had a red and white umbrella and a stack of religious pamphlets. I gave him a sandwich for the first time sometime in junior high and he always remembered me after that. I never ran into him without sitting down for a half hour or so to discuss the state of my soul, dating life, future goals, and his family. I always got his family members mixed up but I felt like he did too, he hadn't seen them in years. I haven't seen him since my last birthday. That was the day the guy reciting Shakespearean soliloquies told me everything would work out and then I met someone in the mexican imports shop that had been to Anapra, and remembered the pastor's little daughter and it was so good to know that she was still alive and growing. There weren't as many of the old faces around the streets when I was home for x-mas and I'd like to hope that meant they were somewhere warm, but I know there are other possiblities... me: "You know that agent guy in Matrix who wore lime green as an Australia drag-queen, and he says, 'your presence has been dually noted'...?" Tey: "I didn't see the Matrix." me: "...um, okay, never mind then. At least it wasn't pink."

"Anything I say to you is gonna' come out wrong anyway."

"But that's how witch babies are."

(Things that are making me happy:)It's all lovely and rainy outside, and I smell like pineapple. I had yummy tea and a crossaint for breakfast. My very green tee-shirt. Watched Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels with Big & his suite mates last night. Was leaned against which makes me feel like trust. He smells trustable. (Some people really do just smell right.) I think I understand Nietzche (maybe). I feel like I should get to run around like a mad child today. Blow bubbles from the top of the main building when it stops raining for a second or two. Vanilla lip gloss. Carry around drumsticks and play on everything. Whispering, "Beasts, beats, beasty-beasts, beasts-beasts-beasts, onomonopia, neopolitian fiasco, lemongrass scandel, candles to wish on, candles making wishes, wishes for water-water-water, beasts-beasts-beasts..." Take pictures when no one is looking or hiding their joy or pain. Let my hair be very wild. Blow kisses to everyone, particularly to people who don't like me. Wink at strangers. Start conversations about all those things everyone thinks about, but nobody talks about... (My boss is looking at me funny. I think I must have laughed out loud, and I'm supposed to be typing class lists.) Namaste.

In the night there seems to be too much in words for me to control or use them beyond what they will for themselves. In the morning after I dream, words hardly seem to be enough and they are stingy bar holding back my thoughts. "Survival was simple: enter the dungeon or the word, accept tis restraints, and fly like a bird through it's bars. Ascending to the high branches of the imagination was the only was to escape." -James Cowan

tre·men·dous (tr-mnds) adj. 1.a. Extremely large in amount, extent, or degree; enormous: a tremendous task. See Synonyms at enormous. b. Informal. Marvelous; wonderful: had a tremendous time at the theater last night. 2. Capable of making one tremble; terrible. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [From Latin tremendus, gerundive of tremere, to tremble.] --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I saw the little mermaid. I watched her walking in high-high, barely-there heels, each step a fresh jab of pain. Even she was allowed to choose her own pain. I wonder if she misses the ocean, her lovely long fin. This is the version where the prince is blind or cold, and she is more masochistic than suicidal.

Nark came a way too close to the truth in class today while using Thad's class as an example of a possible field for resentment. He finished off the comparison by saying it was stupid and I wanted to tell him that for once he was right on the money, but I didn't. *shrug* Thad's cool, but you can't let him get under your skin, it's a constant fight not to. I guess life in general is a constant fight to keep sovereignty of the inside of your head. I was up until six this morning working on the paper for Nark, but some people just don't go to class or just shrug it off. I wish I could do that. But I know if I let one plate fall then it won't be long before I'll let this whole balancing act crash down around me. My balance and coordination suck to begin with anyway. *little smile* I'd love to not care. But the thought of getting out kept me going for the last three-four-maybe five years, and here specifically was the dream that got me through the last year. I would have run away, or something, if I hadn't been coming here at the end of it all. So I can't screw this up. There are no second options. Tey keeps telling me I look really sick which I guess I appreciate as far as being concerned for me, but isn't helping me convince myself that I'm feeling better because I honestly feel like shit, but have so far remained too stubborn to miss class. I did find "the Devil's Larder" in the library today though. I didn't think they'd have it so I hadn't bothered to look it and saw it out of the corner of my eye while looking for something the computer swears they have (MIA maybe). It's sardonically lovely if such a thing may be. I'm supposed to be writing about a subculture, the coffeehouse of course, but I never know what to say about it. When I try and explain it to people I end up just telling strings of individual stories that are all linked and interlocked, most turning on things said thoughtlessly do to excess of alcohol or before thoughts could catch up with mouths due to excess of caffeine. *shrug* So it goes. I took a long sleep after Doloff's class.I think my mom called and tried to talk to me. I think I tried to talk to her. I can't remember what was said or how it ended, I just remember her saying I sounded terrible, and thinking it was nice because she hadn't said I actually was terrible.

rambling about the ocean...etc.

I've spent two days sneezing, coughing, sleeping. So much for all my great plans for the weekend. I did not watch people at Union Square, Chinatown nor the coffee shop at seventy-something and Lexington. I did not go to the ocean at Rockaway Beach which even if it is not my ocean is better than no ocean at all. I'm burning vanilla & mango incense in the room with the window open and the chilly air coming in so my bed and the air in general won't smell like sweat and sickness, and maybe if the air is at least from outside I can pretend that somewhere in the haze of city smells I can almost find a clean ocean smell to make me feel well. I think that's one of two things I miss the most about home vs. NY, you can forget the ocean here. I mean NYC is a couple islands really and you'd never know it. At home you couldn't forget it, or at least I couldn't but maybe it's just me. There the ocean was in the coffee, the rain, the wind, in the easy tidal flow of conversations, in the way the clouds would go foam colored, in tears when I cried. But here rain, wind, talk, tears, whatever, aren't the ocean, they're just themselves, and it's a relief sometimes to finally feel free of the pull of the tide in everything, but sometimes it was nice to have at least that guidance when you felt lost. Here there's just city, but city disconnected from anything besides people, and all the people disconnected from each other. Every so often I dream of being hugged and it's the strangest thing to remember. Back home everyone hugged, or maybe just we did, the Coffeehouse people and the drama kids. Here the only person who hugs me with any frequency (by which I mean he's hugged me at least twice) is Rick and when he hugs me I feel like he's about to take me by the shoulders, shake me, and yell, "Devil, get thee from this girl!" *shrug* I don't know. I guess it's something I've gotten used to. I was startled by hugs when I went home for spring break, and when Jade came to visit. When Jade was here he said something about swimming and I realized I haven't swam since August, a strange thing after being in the pool nearly everyday for three years, and every second or third day for most of my life before that. I learned to swim before I could walk, and when I was old enough I was a lifeguard and taught swimming lessons. There was a little girl--Sarah--I taught her how to float in level one, up to trying to perfect her crawl stroke in level five last summer. I wonder if she'll be gone. I think missing people like that is worse--the people you may not see again--, worse than the coffeehousers like Y with his eyes shining like stars from whatever he is mixing with his blood this week, and Dawe with his photos of naked women being fairys, goddesses, spirits, muses, and Em always with five new bands to tell me about and five new guys in love with her, and Stef who can make anything grow anywhere who just got married to a grinning skinny giant when they'd both said they'd never get married again, and Marianne who owned the house and loves New York and told me not to be afraid of it and puts my postcards on the fridge next to the picture of five of me that Dawe made on his computer. ...ok...so...gonna go write a paper... "Don't tell me to look at myself. I know that I don't exist." -Fiction Plane

my dad or why I am obsessed with this Ani quote

"...to accept and get by as my father learned to do, but without all the accepting and getting by that got my father through." -Ani Difranco, "Angry Anymore" My father is one of the most quietly amazing people I've ever met. He and my mother started dating when she was a freshmen and he was a sophomore in highschool, with the exception of my father's (or maybe my mother's) first semester of college they've been together ever since. I know my mother, trust me on this one. She is just like me but with a more than healthy dose of religion, and a less odd childhood and so is infinitely less close-mouthed. My father's patience amazes me. I mean seriously my goal for the past few years if to stay out of my mother's way as much as possible. (k, enough mom-bashing. She's my mother, of course I love her, or something.) My father went to school to be an art teacher. His painting are possibly some of the most amazing contemporary stuff I've ever seen (admittedly I may be less than objective). They're all over our house and I'm sure much of the imagery I still adore (the moon, sand castles, rain drops, the ocean, the queen of hearts, colors in general) can be traced back to having those up everywhere my whole life. After my father did his student teaching he started applying for jobs, this went on for years. Eventually someone told that as far as his confidential files were concerned he had no student teaching experience, so of course he hadn't been hired, or even encouraged. When he went back to his college all the paperwork had been lost and the prof he'd worked with was gone without a forwarding address. They said they couldn't get him new documents but that he could get the certs to be a tech teacher at a sever discount to make up for their mistake and that technology was going to be big in the next few years. So my dad became a technology teacher. A couple years ago he started a micro-brewery on the side, a one-man operation. He's quitting the highschool at the end of this year. The point is he never wanted to be a tech teacher, not to say he didn't make his own fun with it. But someone screwed up and he couldn't do anything about it. Relatively I know it's not a great tragedy or anything, but it does suck. It's not even really the teaching that gets me though, it's the paintings. I was raised with Janson's History of Art on the bottom shelf where I could reach it and look through it when ever I wanted (which is why I'll never book-box-ify that text). My dad's paintings have never been widely known in a circle outside our friends, but it seems like they should. I mean if I start talking about Picasso's 'Dream' or Munch's 'Scream' you might not know it off the top of your head, or maybe you would, but regardless sooner or later you could figure it out. But if I were to go on a tangent about the colors in the raindrops on the pane in the paining in our living room, most people will have one hundred and twenty percent no clue what I'm talking about it, they've never seen it. To me it just seems tragic, but--you know--beautiful. I guess all life is that. I mean you don't know if you'll ever get your message across or even acknowledged, but you just keep living as beautifully as you can.