Old maid

(Clipped this from a zine I was reading today.)

When I am older

If I make it to 30,

If I make it to 40,

If I make it to 50,

And I am

Single at 30

Single at 40

Single at 50

I will live in a little apartment with a cat named petabyte

I will live with my sister

Or some student going to school

Or a friend or two I have collected along the way.

I will make zines, art, and work for non-profit organizations

Make websites, videos, animations

Read books, write books, and get rid of television.

Rain does not wash out things you'd rather forget

Raining.

It's raining, and I'm playing with colour.

I was told to have less oppressive colours.

Bury the black, bury the boring,

Mute down tones, find colour inspirations.

All I do is look at the colours and feel bored.

I think there should be an assignment where you are forced to use at least one colour you should never use, and then incorporate it tastefully in large quantities, like straight cyan or magenta.

One word (art project)

I had this idea the other day. It probably already exists. I am collecting this for later use.

It involves two people. A close friend, or a not so close one. Brother, sister, maybe your mom (but not my mom). You do not even have to be in the same place.

Both people have to think of a word that describes you, or something you are feeling at this moment in your life. It has to be a really good word, not like "love" "peace" "beauty". I am not going to suggest good words, but it has to be a really good word.

Get together with your friend, or the other person, and have them write this word on your body in something semi-permanent. Henna would be best if you had some, but a permanent marker or a pen works fine. Trust them enough to write this word wherever they want to (with some input i.e. not "FUCK" on your cheek, or somewhere you are not comfortable having them write on).

The idea is that as this word fades from your body, you will better understand the other person. You will spend some time (hours maybe days) with a word that they live with, or a word that describes how they are feeling. Try not to intentionally scrub the ink off, and let it wear with time.

If you are not in the same place due to distance, swap words and record using photos.

Record anyways using photos.

Hopefully I will be able to rope someone into doing this with me, and we can take photos of it.

I miss:

Morning

"Everything was beautiful. Nothing hurt."

The reverse side to this is

"Everything hurts. Nothing was beautiful."

This is how I would describe my morning.

Nothing feels beautiful. I see beauty. It surrounds me as morning light, quiet moments, the mark of the first pen on the first page of the day, music. Things I would have a humble, if not tired appreciation for given the time of day. However, I do not feel them.

Such a short thought took me so long to write.

Given everything, I don't know if the past two days constitutes booking an appointment with my counsellor.

Oh life.

I am always over-thinking,

too much writing

I am there.

I am in that fictional, physical place that exists in my body.

I used to call it "where the soul lives"

But that name was too long, and did not describe the feelings attached to it.

For an hour I have thought about whether to write more, or write nothing.

I choose to write more instead of the alternative.

I need to dull these feelings before I attempt any sort of sleep.

(I might have to make a new blog to funnel all these shitty depressed feelings into.)

I should know better by now.

Pieces of me are regressing.

Supposed to have stopped.

Shut up.

mid october, mid november.

A few bad days and it feels like

mid october, mid november.

I am happy in the summer.

I am supposed to be happy in the summer.

An uncontainable fury over dust.

I cannot understand the need to vacuum at 11:00pm at night.

Or to come in, yell piercingly about dust, and cause everyone to stop what they are doing. Homework, writing, television watching, to sweep the floor as the clock ticks towards 10:30pm. A phonecall, and suddenly her voice is pleasant, happy. She's laughing about something.

I wish I was a thin, pretty daughter. I wish I could be a doctor, and have a rich and handsome boyfriend who also wanted to be a doctor. And we lived in a big house, and I was tidy and organized. Then we will have four kids, and two dogs. All of our friends will be doctors, and professionals.

Instead, I am myself. The reality sinks in. I should probably try to go back while I still can. Even your sister doesn't believe you.

No one believes you, and no one gets it. No one gets queer. No one gets cutting. No one gets writing. No one gets being alone. No one gets zines. No one gets that when you have to talk to someone, you really have to fucking talk to someone. No one gets the fact that you try not to feel like this. No one gets the fact that you try not to be like this. No one gets that when you have to talk to someone, you really have to fucking talk to someone.

On the bus home today I tried to make a list. It looked like this:

Boys I've wanted to kiss:

I spent thirty minutes of the bus ride trying to sift through pieces of my past. Guys who were close friends at one point or another, even crushes. I think there was one boy named Andrew when I was in pre-kindergarten. I drew a face on a red balloon, and after I kissed it, I didn't want to kiss him anymore.

I picked out a guy on the bus who would have been my sister's "type". Independent musician looking. I stared at his ass for the bus ride. I made myself stare at him. I tried to picture us dating, picture us kissing, picture us holding hands. Nothing.

You need to work harder. That's why no one believes you.

Like boys. Like boys. Just find one, and like him. It's so natural for everyone else, so why can't it be that way for you?

Stop crying.