it is funny how things can be taken, molded and beaten, and projected. ones life, our lives are all these fast moving pictures. we see movies as not being moving pictures, are we to be the same? my action/reaction time is lagging and as i sit in moral responsibility wondering of the tertiary structures of those deemed most likely to be morally responsible... my mind is clouded with the fact that it is, indeed, the day after the day of st. patrick.

when you say yes when you mean no. if it was good i'll bet it was yours.

this man was engulfed by the green around him. the blue above him. and the solid beneath him. and in the crazy reality of being inside a picture, he found he could breathe easier. it's about going into what seems desolate and full of empty to escape the repetitive motions only to find what brings comfort most is that each and every has been previously explored. he who did such is not there, but they were. and there is comfort in the past. when you escape are you only going to where someone else once escaped? only to be drown in what they had attempted to escape from?

we are figures. we are the moving pictures in a flip book. and no one is really all that interested. we are escaping to be escaped.

i can't understand the difference between being wise and being self-righteous. apparently there is mind versus matter in both but i'm not seeing it. the wise self-involved loves are those who get more, more of what is quantifiable, but also of what is not. humans value measurement. and i do too.

into the wild just left me stricken with uncertainty. as for the arts, it was winning. and skill and talent, it was soaked in it. but the message and the attitudes captured, i cannot tell and i don't know if i ever will.


what would i write if i was sure no one would ever get to it. what would i do if i knew no one would ever know. where would i go if i was sure i'd never see another again. how would i know when to say when if i knew i was to be the only judgement. these aren't questions because some things are monotonous.



i was in this nature filled environment. out of my element with dress, grey tights, white wool hat, gold flats, with hair flailing about my face... not framing it, but hiding it. and causing me to make awkward sudden movements as to get it out of my eyes. away from my mouth. and i heard sounds of nothing i could think nature could offer. and from behind the rocks appeared two boys. but they were hardly boys. and they spoke in a language i did not know, and i suppose even if i could have known i wouldn't want to. it was nice to be of no concern. and unconcerned. and as i passed, tugging at my dress and pushing my bangs to the side, one of them said something similar to 'hello' i am supposing. and i said 'hello'. it was a moment i'll not know again.

loving is as loving does and i'd say we should know.






it's like seeing sand placed in pantyhose and hung about a large space of a room. and then the old man in the doorway asks you what you see. and strangely enough, you see see what you've been waiting for. some called it modern art. others called it absolute shit. but it was worth it.

in all actuality of the thing. the whole thing and nothing but the thing. i sat in a pub across from 6 (several) of my closest friends in Cork, Cork, Ireland. all things fine, tummy full, i looked about as the dreaded conversation came. of course siblings were of topic, they always are. as was the hilarity of getting in trouble with one's father. i began to reflect on a Sex and the City episode as i sat there, bored. completely and totally detatched.

clarity in carrie.

carrie loses her shoes after this women who is having a baby shower makes her take them off. she refuses to empathize or compensate for them. the 485 all of them. ridiculous. so carrie begins to reflect back on all she has spent on her. over 2000 dollars is what it boils down to. all this money wasted and never given in return. gifting is sort of like that. you give at these things. baby showers, wedding showers, birthdays, etc. only to get something in return. it is this silent expectation. and being she was single and without child... she had none of these. and birthdays for surely do not count. what about the single women? what do they get?

so i started calculating all of the time i have lost being detached from conversation simply because i was without siblings and father. it was lots of time. lots of time of not being interesting/interested.

sigh. i suppose.

the worries of the wonders are embodied within andy worhol and my boredom shall subside even if only for 45 minutes. the psedo-intellectuals will walk in the gallery, faces glowing and hair wild (the artsy type) and all with be relatively typical. i can't help but notice and completely figure how boring i've become and perhaps that is why i am to be bored. hardly anyone is to take blame themselves, but perhaps it is the latest craze. but also, perhaps that is the cause of the indie emo trash that i too, was once fond of. (not an assumption saying 'too'. it is truth).

mother visits today. and it is bright with sunshine and warming up by the minute. then the wind blows reminding one that 'let's be real. this shit is not spring yet'. restless in a computer lab, i wait. observing the strictly index ridden writing and focusing on things that were once obtained by the song 'oh holy night'.

i see you everywhere, you know. the shadows explain more things than they ought and you are without thoughts of me i am sure. thinking of one dearly is never to be expected, like exchanges of presents are in gifting. we could agree to disagree but such cannot happen without exchange of words. no one has ever held my interest as you have and many a boyfriends have been jealous. the restrain and refrain from clothes touching floors was nearly almost for the best. and as you explained what would happen i understood, too. phone calls don't ruin everything, it is just a mere delay. that.. that right there. is what i tell myself.

friends are a 4 letter word. interchangeable. the interest i have in how you treat one another is relatively limited and when one cries due to a happening i can't help but to understand and reason with determinism and the possible choices that could have been made.

'you dumb bitch' is still by far the meanest thing you could ever say to a girl.

by far.

totally strange.
being an outsider without much outside of myself.
there are lots of heres and theres.
the trip was disgusting.
running through airports. passing out when i ought not pass out and then not sleeping when i should.
there are things i miss, but not in full reality.
everything being relative, and things like the lovely glowing M and the liquid smoke smell of the king make all things seemingly closer than they could ever appear, much like objects in a review mirror (or Meatloaf's little tune).


we go out here.
pubs are loud and people are silly.
drinks are bought for us, not by us.
we smile lots. and laugh even more.
hanna and i take naps and wake up awfully late.
the sleep here is incredible and somehow i nearly feel deserving.


my voice is near wrecked. i've not done the recording i should.
i am shy with such things though.

there is a number written on brown paper sitting on my desk.
i'm shy about that sort of thing as well.

lots of spinach and onion grilled cheese sandwiches have been eaten on my account.
olive oil and extracts are ridiculously cheap here... everything else, not so much.


two indie rockers were by our side on saturday night. we felt bored and boring. drained and draining.
february calls for much better weather but how much better can you get? other than change. and for surely this change is seriously constant.

my toe split open, the part, where like on your finger, connects to the bend? it just split open while walking around blarney. i didn't kiss the stone after the indie q.t.'s laughed and said the locals pissed on it. i simply posed, blowing a kiss. others followed my lead.

it is strange here. and it's not the strangers. it is those whom i never really thought in a million years i would adore, and also those i miss terribly. and those i figured would share excellent memories and only seem to want to delete them to create new space.

it's silly how life is like a memory card. and some how, without knowing... people reach capacity.

xanga. yeah, that's right. i have had a xanga since i was a sophomore. a trifle ashamed, totally.
but being on blogger doesn't really make you anymore, and in this sickening way i miss going to honors chem, secretly logging on not to update excel data, but check xanga comments.

it's all mixed up.

with everything, i adore hanna. and feel so very lucky and happy to have her out of everyone here, to be closest to. she listens, she understands and i couldn't ask for anything more. i'd say i'm blessed, but that would be a bit religious and i am already taking 1 religious course this semester, which is my quota for life, so i won't go there.


walking around listening to in rainbows. everyone smiles. men call you "love" and boys kiss you on the cheek when you say goodnight. everyone laughs at how we say "ireland". and there really is no such thing as peanut butter here.


in adoration? i am. as long as you miss me. because missing, that is what counts.


you can't be with if you cannot be without.