back in the days where Sarah was actually fatter than me.
Showing posts with label things i want. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things i want. Show all posts
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
sometimes i have to fall to my knees. nothing will happen that isn't supposed to happen, so i won't continue to be so doubtful. there have been worse things, even in my life. when i think of the worst that could happen at this point or in the future, it's better than about a hundred points of my past.
faith is the simplest thing, but sometimes it is just so incomprehensible that i can't help but wonder how it can be expected of us at all. i don't know how i'm supposed to understand it fully, or trust it fully. i have so many physical senses that, despite what i know, everything is muddled. sometimes it's so good that it's painful, and i'm really happy that they exist. sometimes, i feel that if i didn't have faith, maybe things would be more simple, and decisions wouldn't always carry this weight of spirit, or depth of soul. sometimes i just don't want to know anymore.
but in the end, i'm always just thankful. i'm silly for worrying and almost unabashed in my naivety, and still, there is nothing but another chance for a good life and an infinite amount of backup plans.
props to the one who has literally thought about EVERYthing.
faith is the simplest thing, but sometimes it is just so incomprehensible that i can't help but wonder how it can be expected of us at all. i don't know how i'm supposed to understand it fully, or trust it fully. i have so many physical senses that, despite what i know, everything is muddled. sometimes it's so good that it's painful, and i'm really happy that they exist. sometimes, i feel that if i didn't have faith, maybe things would be more simple, and decisions wouldn't always carry this weight of spirit, or depth of soul. sometimes i just don't want to know anymore.
but in the end, i'm always just thankful. i'm silly for worrying and almost unabashed in my naivety, and still, there is nothing but another chance for a good life and an infinite amount of backup plans.
props to the one who has literally thought about EVERYthing.
Monday, May 4, 2009
People Who Deserve a Second Chance
1) Carrot Top. You know, that box of props thing? I think it's great. Don't be so hard on him. Regardless of that horrible plastic surgery/botox deal he's got going on these days, I don't think he's a bad guy.
2) Jennifer Aniston. I don't know about you, but I remember Rachel, and that's almost enough. Not to mention that she is ten times more adorable than that creepy crackhead Angelina Jolie and her succubus ways.
3) Brand New. Okay, it's been forever already since their last album, but they're in the studio as we speak, so we just have to be patient! And a lot of people don't like their last album because it was as poppy as the first two (which is bullshit because Devil and God was MUCH better) but I HAVE A FEELING this new one is going to be GREAT.
4) New York. NEW YORK WHERE ARE YOU? Yuck why am I even ASKING.
5) My Dad the Rock Star, the love child of Gene Simmons and Nickelodeon. There's an article about it here. Okay, not the most popular Nickelodeon cartoon around, but it is definitely one of my favorites. Nicktoons, the reject cartoon channel, doesn't even play it anymore, so that's how I know I'm in trouble. Which leads to number six...
6) Martin Mystery. Also another great and recently canceled Nicktoons show, from the creators of Totally Spies, based on an Italian comic book. Martin was certainly a dreamboat.
7) Picasso. Francis Bacon may have stolen his spotlight, but we should never forget who the master of figurative modernism is. At least, the original master.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Somehow, in a brief moment of clarity involving a vocal hallucination and an incredibly crisp swallow of water, I stumbled upon the definition of true love and how it applies to me. Further inquiry into the subject made me realize that it never has and that, if it did, I would never get it back now. At least, not with the heavy expanse of months and miles that is preventing me from thinking too deeply about anything ever again.
Upon knowing what you have found, you become equally aware of what you have lost, and how, in some senses, it is better off that way. And one can say it constantly, but I don't think one ever truly believes it to the extent which I have forced myself to. I think that I am better off, but I would be lying if I said I don't obsess over the idea, that my main goal since arriving here has not been the inevitable return.
I had once believed that my exodus was from California, and that Florida was the Canaan of sorts, in which I would have to disparage and ruin in order to make my peaceful home. But then I realized I have simply been displaced, and that the only promised land in existance is where I have come from, and now every goal in my life revolves around how I'm going to get back, and who I will have to take with me, and who I will have to leave behind.
There is no love similar to that of love of land. I can't describe the hold certain soil has on me (and by soil, I do not mean the powdered sand that overflows beneath the sinewy roots of grass as if it cannot understand how anything grows from its bed at all) or the way I can feel the presence of rocky cliffsides and plummeting, winding streets as if I had never left at all. It shows in the way I mistake clouds for mountains, or how I expect to find a babbling brook in even the slightest grouping of trees. The love of land is all encompassing, and you miss it like you miss anything else you have loved and lost, expecting to be cradled by a soft sun and the milky scent of jasmine, but are instead beaten by choking humidity or chubby drops of rain. Even the simplest of differences in climate and terrain spawn the most terrifying bouts of nostalgia. I say nostalgia not with the bittersweet fondness that it usually entails, but with the crippling pain these recollections have caused and continue to inspire on an almost daily basis. The nostalgia I have known is not the pleasant fondness of recalling a childhood toy or a family vacation, but is a harrowing, desperate plunge into smells that haunt my senses and turn my stomach, of faces, smooth and ivory, rich and dark, whom appear and reappear in the most sinisterly reptitive of dreams, the caress of a breeze rolling on the back of the fog seeping from behind the hills, or the taste of Pacific salt water streaming down my face after having collapsed into a violent swell of a kelp encrusted wave. Nothing about these memories are comforting, but rather, torturous, knowing that they are sensations I can never recreate, and places my soles would not recognize after more years spent in these swamps and desolate jungles.
I cannot bring myself to remember the years lost or the people I can no longer touch without brief but searing moments of pain, but if anything, I am terrified to forget. The only proof I have of any life I have lived before is only the images and sensory details that I've buried deep between fleshy brain tissue and hardened coronary arteries, details which, should I forget, may one day resurface in a hurried, flashy show of gentle and engaging agony, a show that I hope to avoid at all costs. Therefore, though it troubles me to recount, the time I have lost will never make itself unknown to me, because to forget would be a far worse thing than to do without the pain of remembering. To forget means losing the most beautiful place on earth simply for the selfish purpose of acquiring the much-envied state of apathy, numbness. If I made it that far, I would no longer know how sweet the air tastes and how soft the dirt was, and how delicate the hearts of my lovers were, and how hard my heart had to become to force myself to leave it all.
Upon knowing what you have found, you become equally aware of what you have lost, and how, in some senses, it is better off that way. And one can say it constantly, but I don't think one ever truly believes it to the extent which I have forced myself to. I think that I am better off, but I would be lying if I said I don't obsess over the idea, that my main goal since arriving here has not been the inevitable return.
I had once believed that my exodus was from California, and that Florida was the Canaan of sorts, in which I would have to disparage and ruin in order to make my peaceful home. But then I realized I have simply been displaced, and that the only promised land in existance is where I have come from, and now every goal in my life revolves around how I'm going to get back, and who I will have to take with me, and who I will have to leave behind.
There is no love similar to that of love of land. I can't describe the hold certain soil has on me (and by soil, I do not mean the powdered sand that overflows beneath the sinewy roots of grass as if it cannot understand how anything grows from its bed at all) or the way I can feel the presence of rocky cliffsides and plummeting, winding streets as if I had never left at all. It shows in the way I mistake clouds for mountains, or how I expect to find a babbling brook in even the slightest grouping of trees. The love of land is all encompassing, and you miss it like you miss anything else you have loved and lost, expecting to be cradled by a soft sun and the milky scent of jasmine, but are instead beaten by choking humidity or chubby drops of rain. Even the simplest of differences in climate and terrain spawn the most terrifying bouts of nostalgia. I say nostalgia not with the bittersweet fondness that it usually entails, but with the crippling pain these recollections have caused and continue to inspire on an almost daily basis. The nostalgia I have known is not the pleasant fondness of recalling a childhood toy or a family vacation, but is a harrowing, desperate plunge into smells that haunt my senses and turn my stomach, of faces, smooth and ivory, rich and dark, whom appear and reappear in the most sinisterly reptitive of dreams, the caress of a breeze rolling on the back of the fog seeping from behind the hills, or the taste of Pacific salt water streaming down my face after having collapsed into a violent swell of a kelp encrusted wave. Nothing about these memories are comforting, but rather, torturous, knowing that they are sensations I can never recreate, and places my soles would not recognize after more years spent in these swamps and desolate jungles.
I cannot bring myself to remember the years lost or the people I can no longer touch without brief but searing moments of pain, but if anything, I am terrified to forget. The only proof I have of any life I have lived before is only the images and sensory details that I've buried deep between fleshy brain tissue and hardened coronary arteries, details which, should I forget, may one day resurface in a hurried, flashy show of gentle and engaging agony, a show that I hope to avoid at all costs. Therefore, though it troubles me to recount, the time I have lost will never make itself unknown to me, because to forget would be a far worse thing than to do without the pain of remembering. To forget means losing the most beautiful place on earth simply for the selfish purpose of acquiring the much-envied state of apathy, numbness. If I made it that far, I would no longer know how sweet the air tastes and how soft the dirt was, and how delicate the hearts of my lovers were, and how hard my heart had to become to force myself to leave it all.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Back 2 Skewl
Plaid dress for four square competitions, skinny belt to tie my books together, and high heeled Mary Janes so I can win tetherball.
Monday, March 2, 2009
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