whenever it meets reality, a dream dies a tiny bit.

i spent hours, minutes, seconds scattered throughout mi waking and mi sleeping time constructing a dream, a vision. each mote of light, each puff of air, brushed into place, gently tapped into precisely the correct niche. every detail--building an illusion so well that i believe in it is no easy task. the art of it begins with never meeting the subject or the reality in any quantity whatsoever. only have a few small glimpses of either one to provide material to work with. with images taken from those moments--i have a skeleton to work off of. upon that frame--i gathered all the snapshots in my memory, auditory, visual, and tactile, and started smashing them with a hammer. then i took the glittering shards and, cupping heaps of them in my palms, let them slice deeply. they soaked in much blood, vast quantities, drinking it in hungrily, and i gave of mi heat, life, and passion into those image-pieces. didn't wait for mi hands to heal--this way, they're more connected to the images i'm building, and i can feel mi illusion taking life. it's feeding from mi open, bleeding palms, after all. take the pieces of mi memories and fix them together again, creating the original memories anew, only cracked and crazed and red-tinted into something new. they're not true memories, true snapshots of what i saw/felt/heard, with mi blood they've altered subtly, becoming what mi desires bend them to. mi dream-perfect vision stands in front of me, now, wiped clean of any blood, perfectly smooth or curved, no cracks, no fault lines, no weaknesses apparent. it would take a mountain of stress to break apart this dream. until i meet the reality once more.

when mi illusion cracks into pieces again in the face of the living vision before mi eyes, clean and wholesome, lacking any of mi desires and blood, shaped independently of mi will. will i die? when mi illusion falls into a heap of shimmering broken memories and broken wishes, the cuts will reopen and mi blood will empty over the mound. seeking to revitalize it. but when i see reality, the vision can never resurrect itself. and so mi blood pours out until i'm a pile of dust. a pile of dust to be worked with or swept up and dumped into a nearby trashbin. a trashbin holding mi crimsonstained failed attempts at the perfect dream.

--------------------

what do you think? what do you make of this entry? what's it saying to you (both literally and however you choose to interpret it, if at all). please...i want your input on this one. aside from what yalls think of the content, what about the style of it? the writing, what kind of mood does it convey? any at all? if yalls don't see/feel anything in it, tell me that, too.

in response to meggie's latest entry (05.30.02) ~ i would like to protest. first of all, in that conversation she continued on to ask if she should be in the car when she drops the match into the gas tank, and i told her that no, she should be far away. that proves that i love her and don't wish any harm to come to mi russian sweetie. ::muah:: here's lookin' at you, kid...come home from russia soon!

every night i look at my ceiling
in sleep i see visions
never in waking


i am
      fleeing swarms of shadow-birds

i am
      swooping over dead, yellow land

i am
      watching a dust-saffron orb parch the weeds

i am
      partaking in a futile race


to beat my own subconscious


a nightmare snipped from Zelda
never in waking

-------------------------

From The City

From The City
I've rolled along the road
Feet, yards, and miles of
freeway cement
Into Central Valley farmland
Through the gray dusted hills
Between acres of shriveled grapes
Past cow country
            My gaze flicked over panting, brown steers
            And comatose black cows
in my airconditioned Suburban

It's 438.6 miles
8 hours and 5 minutes
along I-5
6 hours and 20 minutes if I let Dad drive
438.6 miles is

1 9 8 5 0 9 2 paces

and I've walked every single one of them
step by step
dragging cheap slippers over the faded asphalt
I've walked every pace
In my mind

Trudging along in the sun
Turning right on Exit 58
Slowing, halting as rich Suburbia
Nears.

I've walked every pace
In my mind.

To You.

give me yalls' thoughts on the second one, pls. i don't care so much about the first one, but what're your impressions of the 2nd one? does it make any sense? what does it say?

this really has no relevance whatsoever and shouldn't be up here, but i got some amusement out of it, so yalls might as well.

having received an email from anitapita, one of those ones that say 'write down the numbers 1 to 11...in number 1, put down the name of someone of the opposite sex...number 5, put down your favorite color...' etc. emails, i actually did it for kicks. mi results follow. tell me what yalls think...you know how to contact me.

1. write down the numbers 1-11
2. beside 1 and 2, write down any two numbers
3. beside 3 and 7, write down names of members of opposite sex
4. write anyone's name in 4th, 5th, 6th spots
5. write down song titles in 8-11

so here's mi list:
1. 7
2. 11
3. tim
4. anita
5. sheena
6. lizbeth (the asl!)
7. fifi (felix lee)
8. bach's gigue from the french suite
9. carrickfergus
10. bitch
11. and so it goes

now, mi results:

i need to tell 11 people about this (fat chance)
am desperately in love with tim lau
i like fifi (felix) but can't work it out w/him (yeeesh...mi taste in guys is abysmal, according to this thing. how come i didn't think of mike?)
i care the most about anitapita mazloom
sheenabeana reddy knows me very well (she's a bloody psychic girl, so that could be true.)
lizbeth is mi lucky star (you are too, meggie. or maybe you're just mi angel :-). )
bach's gigue is the song that matches tim (no...he loathes bach)
carrickfergus - an old celtic song that charlotte church sings - is the song for fifi (::falls over laffing::)
'bitch' is the song that tells me the most about mi mind (hmm...)
'and so it goes' by billy joel is the one that tells me the most about life (hmm again).

will try to avoid being overly self-centered, whiny, and melodramatic.
mi elaboration of yesterday's entry follows. ::grandly:: it is a work in progress, so bear with me.

im a little bit of everything
all rolled into one
im a bitch im a lover...

i know mi value. at the auction block, i might, depending on which society i'm being auctioned off in, go for any price. approximate values are from 1 as to 875 sesterces. for instance, in a nerd-centric society, mi value as a slave might be around 784 sesterces, while in a culture that wants physical/menial laborers i might be as much as 5 sesterces, 2 denarii, and 1 as (probably much less than this amount, actually. perhaps 2 denarii and half an as). mi value: lies in blood, intellect, and an ability to work past physical needs such as sleep*. in other words, im like any of the other 363 harker upper school students still in school.

what am i worth to you?

nothing
everything
three-quarters of the moonbeam residue left drizzled over a lake
$19,000/year x four years + $3,000--$6,000/summer x four summers + $215/month x 72 months + food + utilities + clothing + accessories (laptop, glasses, backpack, etc.) + housing**

i am: histrionic, self-centered, yes. all of those and more.

this doesn't make a whole lot of sense, does it? worse than that, it probably sounds pretentious. i try not to be, but it doesn't often work out that way. everything's a facade--what most people see is a pretense. or maybe it's not; i try to be honest and to act like who i am, for the most part, wherever i am. what you see is what you get, except for the roiling thoughts which i dislike to take out and parade in front of my teddy bear, much less animate beings. i'd rather not examine them, myself.

--------------------


*when i say 'blood' i refer to the actual fluid, not to lineage or bloodline. what's the worth of that? it's the gorgeous, steamy, iron-tasting liquid that's got value. and whatever blue blood i have is extremely diluted (diluted by 16 generations or so).
**that sum is: four years' worth harker tuition, summer programs for the last three summers + this summer, clarinet/piano fees, and then food, utilities, clothing, accessories, and housing.

[[not satisfied with this entry yet]]
[[give me your feedback, please. amens_amans@hotmail.com; or IM.]]

im a little bit of everything all rolled into one
im a bitch im a lover...

i know mi value

what am i worth to you?

histrionic, self-centered, yes.

[[will elaborate more on this later; am getting kicked off computer by sibliing]]

blahblahblah cultural imperialism blahblahblah dawes severalty act blahblahblah alamagordo blahblahblah land ownership blahblahblah erasing blahblahblah non-native Americans blahblahblah relocation blahblahblah

having read that, you now have an idea of what mi 2,723 word history research paper on why the united states' federal policy towards Native Americans in western America from 1867 A.D. to the present can be characterized as a policy of cultural imperialism is like. it was written in a span of 13.5 hours (although a good deal of that time was spent dozing, sleeping, madly checking how many words had been written so far, and spitting up bloody phlegm) and the research was done on the following schedule: a little on Thursday, a little on Saturday, some on Sunday, some on Monday. in other words - the end product of this labor and trauma and stress: probably a B or a B-. it's a stinky paper. ::sigh::

To All Members of TAATM,

        Revolutionaries, pay heed! through great daring, struggle, and torment, a TAATM agent has discovered that The Meaniehead (also known as The Mean One) has not one, not two, but THREE weaknesses. pay close attention now. These weaknesses are as follows:

- teasing about a certain Harvard first year...whose surname rhymes with that of a Russian dynasty and the last name of Ivan the Terrible's spouse.
- ::shrug:: ing. wahaha! This weakness is severe. Use this knowledge sparingly and strategically.
- indifference

we must go and begin planning our attacks. there will be a meeting at the usual time and place.

Your Fearless Leader,

*MEOW*



Official Correspondence of TAATM

Nat King Cole: the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

^-- how could i have forgotten to put that on mi favorite quotes post? well, since i did, it is now here, on its own post. that's how special a quote it is :-D.

ugh. feel disgustingly needy. must grow up.

what am i [to you]?
are you?

other...funni...quotes...
cosmo on alex and cat: you act like an old married couple! <-- someone save me...

to mi meggie grandpa: CONGRATULATIONS ON GRADUATING!!! you're now WELLESLEY CLASS OF 2006!!! *muah* props to you, dear. you've escaped prison...and soon youll be flying on your angelic wings to boston. i'll miss u...heck, i miss u already. isn't that funni how it works, that u can miss somehow even while they're around, just because of the thought that soon they'll be gone? keep writing poetry, keep helping your (mentally deranged/troubled) friends, and keep on living. always remember ~ smile and nod, honey. ;-)

song in mi head: 'bring him home' ~ les mis