Space for another

There's space for another pair of shoes, but rarely are they found at this time of night. Cigarette butts fill the cracks in the concrete, and new skin fills the cracks I have made on my body. Looking at it that way, there should never be another pair of shoes, especially at this time of night. Girls who rip skin like paper, what violence could they do to someone else? I devour people. I take a lot. I want to know everything. Life stories, what you had for breakfast, your uncle's retirement plans. Take everything, but can never give much more than words on a piece of paper, some drawings, a little art. Capable of cruel actions, intentions. I take me with me, I take me with me. Through every minute or drastic transformation of my body, through every relationship (even the one with my cat), through every trip, vacation, or study experience, I take me with me. Kinda makes you wonder, kinda makes you question, when you go to the beyond, do you take you with you too? Do you die with all the feelings you suffered with, all the feelings you enjoyed? All the women who were like me killed themselves, you know that? All the girls who are like me now, we are all so similar, so unstable, and so scared if things go right for a few days or weeks (because they have a habit of changing too suddenly back). Will we be like those women? I don't know. I would like to be able to say "no!" and move back into a productive life, one where no one is afraid of these things happening.

1/16 (18w)

focussed, crude red lines

this body judged for all it isn't.

a truth even you cannot disagree with.

Couldn't see the sky through the clouds

Ever since my mom found out certain things about me I would rather she didn't know, a lot of paper documentation of my life and feelings has become mostly or completely digital. Some private, some public, or semi-public.

Today felt a lot like this picture. It wasn't a good day. I skipped class for no reason other than I couldn't think. I couldn't stand to be inside a small crammed classroom, even though I had waited a year to take the class. Shut down during my group meeting. Couldn't contribute in a meaningful way, couldn't think of the things I needed say. I don't know why I'm here in this city, at school, or breathing, when I can't even appreciate any of it.

For the first time in my life since the trick or treating age, I have some semblance of Halloween plans. As a kid, Halloween was always a stressful time of the year because trick-or-treating implied that you had friends. It was one of those nights when there was a lot of pressure to make plans, dress up and go out. As a twenty-something, it didn't change.

I haven't felt "normal" for two weeks.

It is discomforting. There are times when I am so motivated to accomplish great things, and I can see my future. Today, on the bus, I could see it all laid out. Spend this summer learning code, make zines. Get a job at a camp, or somewhere. Got to a few zine fairs. Apply in the fall for a new media grad program in BC. Hopefully get in, and go to BC for a few years. Get a good job in field. Go north for a few years.

I can't see the sky through the clouds anymore. I don't want to get out of bed anymore, and I don't know why. Fuck. I'm supposed to be the one who accomplishes things in my family. Everyone has great expectations of me. I want to accomplish things. My head hurts, and I just want to go to sleep. Nothing makes this better.

East Coast Dreamer

I have buildings, and she has ocean. We share text messages and letters, west coast dreams, and the same sky. We have fear, and talent. We are raised by people who don't always appreciate our need for zines, art, and adventure.

I ride busses, and she rides bikes. We both like to be alone.

A friend, is a friend, is a friend.

Circumference is equal to

You can have love and a lover, or you can have nothing like that. You can have friends and a mother, or you can have nothing like that. You can have a sister, and you can speak french. You can have love and a father, or you can have nothing like that.

You could be smart, and a lawyer, but it will feel nothing like that. You could climb up the ladder, but it will feel nothing like that. You could be grounded, and you could read books. You could become who they wanted, but it will feel nothing like that.

You will run away when you're older, trying to find something like that. You will meet people and wreck them, trying to find something like that. You will be reckless, and you will be poor. You will never get wiser, trying to find something like that.

You die for certain, and never find something like that. You barely scratch the surface, and never find something like that. You win some and lose some, but mostly you lose. You want it for certain, but you never find something like that.

Subtleties

I wish that there were more secret codes again. Maybe its the appeal of pins or band t-shirts these days. If you wear a shirt by a certain band, you're in the club of people who know that music, and can appreciate it.

I really like the idea of what these artists are doing: http://www.etsy.com/shop/hankycode

From their website:

"The Hanky Code originated in the 1960s in a series of gay leather bars around Los Angles, California. In it’s infancy the code was used primarily by gay men, specifically those involved in the BDSM (bondage discipline sadomasochism) lifestyle. The Hanky Code functioned as a color coded system for communicating illegal or stigmatized sexual desires, within the construct of top and bottom, or dominate and submissive (signified by the pocket the hanky is worn in). These small colored garments lubricated the wearer’s navigation through sexual relations, while simultaneously responding to the dangers those sexual relations play in terms of identity, specifically within an environment of sexual oppression. "

No one would know what it means anymore if you wore it, even though I'm somewhat tempted to buy one. Are there still sublte, secret worlds, or has everything gone mainstream?

Indication

(A young artist I admire.)

These words that I write out, they are drafts of present tense feelings always being rewritten. Usually never edited, they just get rewritten, updated, and presented potentially for the world, but really for no one. Isn't that the idea of the internet?

I wouldn't say this is the best indication of the "I" all the theorists inject into their papers. The "I" , I inject into my non-theories which are subjective experiences. Sorry. "This" refers to exactly what this is. The act of writing, the thought that my ideas mean something.

Am I more than my thoughts, or are my thoughts more than me? Are these thoughts I have right now something I surpass? Am I better than these feelings? Or, am I average and boring, and having these kinds of thoughts makes me slightly less starkly plain?

Everyone but me was learning theory today. After awhile second hand theory is like second hand smoke. Unavoidable, sometimes suffocating, and perplexing.