erasing the erased.

Never mind. Fuck yes. It's back on. At least SOME of my friends aren't let-downs.

erased.

Scratch the tattoo. My friends in LA are so fucking lame. I am so sick of this shit. It's time this school year ended already.

locked away.

I am getting my tattoo tonight. I am so excited!!!

Also, I just found this in an old drawer as I was looking for my father's southern biscuit recipe. It is strange how I don't miss him anymore. I will never miss him again. I also realized while reading this that love will never feel the same twice. That is not to say it is better or worse, but every time you fall in love, it is different. This is something I have learned in the last two years, and something I continue to learn, and something more important than all of the words he ever said and felt deeply and meant, but that no longer mean anything at all:

"all i could really hear was the last phrase of whatever Jeff Buckley was saying because of the overtones of the reverb and maybe a high echoey guitar note here and there and how every song that you played was just a sorry bassline for the symphony of your breathing, while we were falling asleep even when I knew I'd have to get up and leave at four thirty, or five, or some other ungodly hour and how when we were falling asleep, every chord, every note sung made me feel like I knew you better and like I wanted you to be a part of my life forever and still do."

without context.

filling in the blanks.

I only have seven more weeks left in Los Angeles, so I have decided to make every day count. That means being at my apartment as little as humanly possible, thus the non-attendance to the blog. I apologize for that.

Middle America was astounding. I feel so lucky to have done what I did and have seen what I saw. Runza's and throwing up along I-80 and presenting my thesis and spending the night in Chicago with some awesome people. Even though there were ups and downs, I was always enjoying myself (minus the vomiting part, but I think I kept that to myself pretty well). I learned several important lessons about road trips while out for six days. The first is: fucking relax already. Even if you're uncomfortable, even if you have no interest in the city you have stopped in to get gas, even if you think you don't have enough time to see it all. Just relax and do what you can. I also had epiphanies about other things that I will keep to myself.

Since I have been home, I have gotten much of my work done (there was a lot to do, there continues to be a lot to do), but I have also gone running every morning, renewed my veganism for an indefinite period of time, went out to a crazy weird electro dance club last night, had margaritas with Amber (probably the highlight of the week so far :) ), gone to meetings, spent time with new and old friends, celebrated the holiday on the 20th with a swimming pool and a BBQ and bad television, and have felt extremely contented. Rebecca's been at Nick's practically the whole week, so I don't have to feel guilty stumbling in really late and waking up at 6AM to do my run warm-up in the bedroom.

My mother has asked that I move home so I can take care of the cats over the summer. I suppose if I have no other back up plan (I don't, this whole Ireland thing is at a standstill), I can always be an effing cat sitter. I think my eventual plan is to work in the city for a while and save up money to move into an apartment with some strangers. I have met a few people in the city in the recent past, and I think I might be able to resign myself to that kind of middle-of-the-road plan for a few months. Besides, I sure as hell don't want to be in Los Angeles when it's this hot outside. I feel like I'm melting. I have lily white skin and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you, Los Angeles!

Ugh. I'm in the midst of a bloggy-blog entry. I hate reading these, so I avoid writing them. It's so self-indulgent.

But now I feel indulged, and I can sleep. With this photograph of Texas, I leave.

i realized in oklahoma.

I'm back in L.A. I've never wanted anything less. I will update when I have not been in the car sitting on my ass for 12 hours straight. I will just say that I do not belong here. I'm sorry to everyone I love here, but I do not belong in this city. I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

Also, am tired.

Also, am going on a raw food diet to counteract the pizza mcdonald's burritos bbq food poisoning too much meat from this week.

hopefully i don't leave anything behind. oh wait. too late.

Through California, to Nevada, into Utah, Wyoming, onward to Nebraska and Iowa and Minnesota, and then to Wisconsin. From there, we skip over to Chicago, go to some bars, eat some bomb pizza, hang out with Zach's (and maybe Alex's??) friends, and head back through Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and home to Los Angeles once again. Starting... at two in the morning. The plan is pretty much ridiculous. But it is in that ridiculousness that I find myself making much much much more sense.

my recitation.

"If I could only get hold of the-whole-of-you-now,
How could you ever be for me what I myself am?"
-"The Second Trying," Dalia Ravikovitch (trans. from the Hebrew by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld)

Perhaps life becomes merely a listing of things
When I enter for the second time,
a box of matches, an empty bottle, an empty room, the sheets, the pillow, the light switch, the thoughts I suppress, those I call forth for you.
This time I am brave.
I do not fear my own contortions.
I do not think of the torn photographs.
I do not wonder.
Perhaps you feel the change in me, in the softening of my bones,
in the thumpthump thump thump of my chest,
the irregular heart beat.
A girl calling out to a man in an open field.
A boy, "you are astounding.
you are assiduous."
he says in the natural rhythm of the language, in the natural rhythm forming from their hushed exhalations. she says tell me how. he never answers. the men never answer. the women wonder how how how and why why am I anything at all? i am nothing at all until the existence of you within me. my thoughts are not my own until you reside alongside them. my breath turns sweet when i share it with your breath.
share me, please share me, please show me what you mean. answer my questions with the parting of your lips.
I end by pleading. I ask for forgiveness in the dark,
where your eyes turn to sometimes-sparkles,
where the smooth surface of the back of your hand
feels like the back of my hand,
where we search our bodies for new ways of searching.
In my sleep,
I stop looking.
I dream of nothing, of the spaces between the burnt brown of static electricity.
I wake up reciting lines of Middle English from memory.
And when it begins again, I forgive you
In another language. I learn that
We are both alone.
That
We are always alone
That
When the tips of your fingers finally melt the white snow enveloping the backs of my legs
We are not one.
For One is an illusion, One disappears
when distance absorbs your bed and your music and the soft echo of our a capella.
It is I alone, it is I
You, well, you are a handsome diversion from the reality of never-ending exile.

days and days.

I have probably gotten a cumulative 18 hours of sleep this week. No life left in me. Am also terribly sick and it won't go away. I got a whopping 2 hours of sleep last night, proceeded to drink a big effing cup of coffee at 9, went to class for 2 hours, presented my thesis process in one of my former professor's seminars, took my car into the shop, and tried to get work done before falling asleep at 5.

On Monday, I am leaving for Wisconsin to present my thesis and eat pizza in Chicago. And today may be Friday, but I feel a little dead and I just want to be back to myself again. I hate hate hate that things start to work out for me just as I am about to get the hell out of this place. It makes me feel defeated and like fate and romance and any kind of direction can never exist in my life. Even if they exist for short periods, they are mere stops on the way to further confusion. Oh well.

one by one.

Perhaps in either place, the grass will feel the same. Perhaps the sun shines through the clouds the same, the heat of little sun-drenched slivers of light falling to my feet through the filter of a tree's branches. In the night, the stars will blur together the same, reminding me of home (or at least a place I once considered a home). As I tilt my head upwards, look into the orange glow of a street lamp, my eyelashes capture drops of water. I think of the singularity of places. But I can't help but feel similarities exist; similarities must exist. I am not sure I will ever be able to quantify the differences, the vast gaps in meaning and definition between one location and another. What good would it do? All I am sure of is that I can find home under drops of water, under street lamps, pressed against my kitchen cabinet, inhaling the warm and salty scent of the skin across your neck. Whether I find something in one place or another is of no consequence. I suppose grass and sunlight and the brightness of the moon mean nothing. I only know I like the weight of you.