feels like I'm drowning in my own fear, my own avoidance that builds up like bricks. the cement sealing together every other anxiety and thing I'm doing wrong. linking them like a chain. never ending, towering above me like the the empire state building. and before you know it I'm trapped in my own little box because i can't fix the path iv gone down, i can't break down the walls that iv build around myself. and any contemporary weapon of choice can do nothing to free me from myself. i can attack with no hammer, or swing with no sword. i can not repel with any rifle and i especially cannot plan a siege when there is no one that can know.

Friday November 13th
iliana

I remember sitting in the grass making dolls out of straw and thinking how much like an indian i felt. Spring was in bloom and it wasn't too hot or the breeze just a touch to cold. it was perfect, and the grass was like a soft bed underneath me. i kept those dolls for a little while. i kept them until the grass dried out and fell away.

for some reason the fat bee that keeps visiting me in the window reminded me of that, back in alaska. i wonder if the bee looks in here and sees me and wonders what little bees wonder with primitive little thoughts. i suppose its more likely that he (i think its a he) was wondering at how it open space with possible flowers could be there but inaccessible.

don't we all feel that way sometimes. like little bees looking in on things that are right there, but inaccessible. out of reach and impossible.

pg. 249 inspired

through order we survive.
hold the line
hold your tongue
keep your marching order

soldiers of our time
we hurry here to wait
we hurry to survive

in war
we must conform
the sameness, the unity, the brotherhood
no, not a place for the poet
or one freedom inclined

see once an unruly spirit
he crumbled to the road
trodden over by the boots
there from time to time

the dust wafted up
the men called forth
and spirits left behind
i say again,
through order we survive

two unrelated thoughts

as children we are encouraged and laid upon with praise for insignificant feats. We are constantly told how wonderful, how talented we are. this turns out to be unfortunate for those of us who the grow up, and turn out to be... how shall i say? lackluster. then where are we left. in the dirt with our failings, and self misery about the illiterate wretches we truly are


&()*^%$$$$$%%%^^&&&**(()))(*&^%$#@@!!@@##$$%%%^&&*(*()

memories. memories that we remember from our years are curious- the ones that stick with us, valuable. sometimes they can be ones that push us forward, and remind of of our worth- especially if it is one where we did something to receive praise. i can remember in my 8th grade english class we were reading the great gatsby. it was the first time i was introduced to the vast symbolism and available literary interpretation that can be present in decent to more than decent pieces of literature. i found a depth of symbolism and connection that mt young mind did not even know existed. i found it astounding, how much is more to a book when you read in between the lines.

we took a test on the book, and there were many questions that involved assessing my knowledge of the symbolism and i can remember the words and thoughts and ideas swirling around in my head, and i was rushing to write it all down, my handwriting becoming somewhat illegible. i remember concluding on one something i remembered from a soap opera i had seen from when i was maybe 7 to ten years old. a woman saying, "how can i love you if you can't even love yourself." and i made some reference to the fact that how can nick love anyone, Jordan when he can't even love himself... in reference to his extreme criticalness of other people and of himself.

my teacher was astounded by the wealth of knowledge i had imparted to my sheet of paper. her face i remember, the expression. it was like she was thinking, she's got it and she understands. and i was told that i had done the best on the test out of the entire class because even though my wording was somewhat dysfunctional, (a result of trying to get it all down) and not even having the highest grade, i had understood in a way other students had not.

musings

it seems like people go between an insatiable need to be connected, known by people and the world around them to a desire to push people away, let go and forgo any contact because the effort to deal with humans becomes so hard. people can never look at you unbiased, or know what elements of the world have made you who you are, or influenced the way you acted at 4:00 last thursday night. so why should we try when we will always be judged, never be able to enter a certain social group and face the very real possibility that the people who become ours will be lost by us. maybe they will push us away, forget us in the same way we want to kick everyone to the curb sometimes too. why make these connections in our life when people will disappoint us... we need to in the end so we don't turn into psychopaths from a faulty frontal lobe or end our self propagating depression. we can never be independent creatures when our whole mental and emotional well being relies on the connections we make. we quiver in the middle between the two, sometimes tending to ignore people or loosing contact when we favor the isolationist side, but then bemoaning our lost contact when we begin to crave what we had. maybe america was onto something when in was isolationist in the what 20s? with the Chinese exclusion act, uninvolved foreign policy and immigration quotas... i mean look at the mess we are in now- in everyones bloody business, with the entire world hating us- anyways i digress. the main point is sometimes humans are fucking hard to deal with and you can't change peoples facets if character.

not sure

crystals hung from the chandelier and cast drops of light across the room like small drops of rain refracted by a million mirrors. the wooden floor was glossy but worn from the countless feet that danced across it and portraits of no-name well-to-do governors and political scoundrels covered certain expanses of walls. daisy could see all the people, fake, busying themselves with the social connections and vendettas that must all be served in a world where your facade is everything. in a world where the poison seeping out of peoples words is masked by the clinking of champagne glasses and wealth. she could see her life before her with surprising ease.

i am Gwen of course. i recently came to new york in the summer to spend time with dying grandmother. my grandmother happened to be an insufferable suffragette in her time, something not popular in a family of a historically wealthy background. but money forgives all sins doesn't it? recently she has enjoyed scandalizing my father with her incessant talk of the rights of all creatures known earth, recently her cause has been burrowing owl habitats destroyed by henry fords newer factories and racial discriminations against asians.

after my the trip form st. paul to central station a car nora (grandma) sent took me through the smoke filled streets from the the less fortunate parts of the city to what was to become the symbolic epicenter of my coming out in the wealthy new york life; the votier hotel. it is there where i sit waiting for nora to meet me for coffee before we retire to strategize my time here amongst the frogs as my grandmother likes to call the people society insists we be ourselves...

"Gwendolyn" is rudely shouted across the entrance, and i turn to see nora.

why the fuck is every blog i get to when i click next blog one thats Russian or Ukrainian or some shit