There are people who I have not spoken to today who I wish I had. I am wondering how you and you and you are. I am reading Stein who I will probably like as soon as I am finished with her for reasons that are not explainable. It is hot and I am waiting for my coffee to cool off enough to be drinkable. I slept until 2:30 this afternoon, and since then have gone out for more orange juice and have been trying to virtuously finish my studio homework while trying to mentally avoid the question of the writing assignment itself. I keep taking breaks to read Tam Lin and daydream of being an english major at Blackstock, but the truth of the matter is that Nick Tooley was amusing but not wonderful, Thomas Lane was not unlike that which is known, I'm not so good at essays and I get to read plenty here and if Blackstock were an art school it would not be very unlike Pratt even if we don't have a Medeous (we can make plenty of our own problems I suppose). So I will mentally christen myself Janet and pull the branches down some other evening and go back to pseudo-english-major-ousity.

Walking up Bowery last night could have been one of dozens of nights last year, nights I wandered looking for angels that would glow against the night and hopefully see something glowing in me. I would go out hopeful and ready to meet the world and embrace it, after a while all the people and streets would blend together and the high point of the evening was if I could loose myself enough to not know where or how far the nearest subway stop was. Last night I just wanted to get home, get my boot off my feet. Something about wanting to not be noticed made me noticable apparntly, probably the boots.

This afternoon at work I was checking my email and low and behold I had a note from crazy-fabulous coffeehouse owner lady who is visiting the city. So tonight we're meeting to go to a reading by the author of The Virgin Suicides. Definately hasn't sunk in yet or I wouldn't be able to sit still long enough to type this. *pirouettes around dorm room*

laying in his bed I was a mess, a dizzy-headed, snotty-nosed, limp-limbed, useless girl. and he was so good to me my heart went all teary and as runny as my nose as he fetched me my teddy bear from five flights up and gently wiped the fevered sweat from my skin with a damp cloth. no one has ever been so kind to me. no one has ever wanted to give me the world. no one has ever wished they could give me wings. I remember now what I have known since the day we met under the stars: he is too good for me. to spend a life time attempting to live up to his praise would be a life well and sweetly lived, spent pleasing him. may I be allowed to continue trying.

I am never truthful enough, been lying to myself so long I don't catch them anymore unless you do.

Hotspur walks among us, and he knows it. In hopes of being truthful I wound who I love. My speech is too blunt, I come from a place where we speak so starkly that what we say is harder than what we mean when we walk in china shops. Aye, I move like a bull. I think I'll just shut-up again. My walls are bare and my bed is strange to me, thorugh it's new softness is sweet. (Thanks for bringing my stuff, Tey.) My secrets made part of the discourse as you flip through pages I'd assumed I could trust to stay closed, though I do understand it. I am not claiming to be a saint. At work I make chains of paper cranes for the sake of wishes. I'm not sure what I'm wishing for anymore.

tool

Chill out, space-case mouse-child. Everything will work out, you are not alone, and you have your words, and colors, and rain too. The things that are wrong aren't in your hands and worrying will help nothing.

Anti-social. No point in denying it really. Funny, from the inside of your head it never really seems so clear cut as that. I suppose thats why labels happen. If you put a name on something it's in a box, it has defined edges, boundries. After that you know where it ends and where people (theoretically) fit, and then you don't have to think about it so much (theoretically). I don't mind. I don't care... except sometimes when I do... It's just the way I'm made, all of it, the caring and also the not caring. They're cutting my hours at the office, not right away it seems, but soon. As if this year wasn't already tight. If I'd kept my religion I wonder if I would have been made a RA last year, then this wouldn't be a problem... ...just spilt milk. right-right-right. It doesn't matter, very little does. Not tears, bruises, or even words. Maybe not anything, nothing at all.