"Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will. - George Bernard Shaw"

...thoughts?

In this moment I am giddy and shivering. I was looking at a filled word document, a month's worth of writing scattered on the screen, and I was smiling. Something warmed inside and spilled out. There was a paragraph (suburban-male-Burkha) and I smiled at the thought (the idea of a story of us, of our story) of you. I smiled. It was good and maybe even happy but I was pleased to be alive, to be thinking and feeling and then able to write it down, to want to write it down.

And I look at the bits that confuse me and irritate me, the parts that keep me up and makes me squirm, make me rash and smoke and I, in this moment, can see past them and into, onto, around something bigger. Maybe the meaning of it all or some of it or maybe nothing or, what is meaning anyway?

I look at the pages filled with me and I smile. It warms and spills into a smile and I wanted to share that with you, gentle readers. I wanted you to know that this faceless relationship of ours is really doing it for me. And I love you.

So.

I'm reeking and taste like a secret. But my afternoon has been delectable- burgers and ice cream and multitudes of sex-less, socially unacceptable habits. The laundry's going and 'Sex and the City' is playing in the background as trash goes in the garage, floors get swept and projects for rehearsal tonight get finished*. I'm enjoying my lies and my trashy, trashy deceits, the ones people would shun me if they knew. And yes, parading it around like this, blogging and dangling untell-able secrets is immature and rude and kinda stupid... but so fun. :)

come on, how often do I not tell everyone every little details about my life? Exactly. :)

*the show is on schedule. slightly ahead, actually. all props and costumes will be in place as of tonight and tomorrow, all I have to do is sleep in read, shower and put on some heels for opening night. this is weird. I'm not used to being prepared. something isn't right... :)

I made a river from my front door to yours
I built myself a raft with my living room doors
But when I set sail to find you
I never reached your shore

I gave you my new sweater, so you would be warm
To protect you from the winds of the mighty winter storm
And though I was nearly freezing
I didn't really mind

And even though she'll never need me
I will save my love for her
Til the day when she discovers that my love won't fade away
Til the day

I gave you flowers, so everyone would see
That the light behind your eyes, is the light that shines on me
But you never gave them water
So they withered to the ground

I am so tired, I don't know what to do
Should I curse the dreaded day in which I fell in love with you?
No, I think its worth the loneliness
Just to see your face

And even though she'll never need me
I will save my love for her
Til the day when she discovers that my love won't fade away
Til the day

- This is Ivy League

I'm sitting here listening to the wind in the chimes and all of a sudden I am filled with the smell of the ocean. More specifically my car driving back from it, sleepy with sun and salt spray and the car reeking of saline and sweat and exhausted pleasure.

I think I miss the beach.

I think a beach day is coming soon.

My nostrils are stinging with the feeling of too much salt water. I'm loving this.

...I'm hating the word nostril, though. Not a pretty word by any means.

Also:

I recently starting going back through things I had saved on the computer- stories, poems, journal entries, you name it- and I would like to share a few of my favorites with ya. I read them and smiled because they're good, at least in my eyes they are, and made me laugh out loud and say, 'damn, I am a good writer.'

"I am listening to French accordian music and wishing I could take a long and useful milk bath, then go to sleep in sweet smelling sheets and wake up a mermaid or a princess or at least perfect. As is, I have to resolve to do laundry and clean the house and drink more water. I have to be Cinderella, pre-shoes, and I don't really like her. I hate cleaning and I'm not a soprano."

"I'm saving my pennies for the most useless things, like peaches and green drinks and lacy underwear. It's starting to feel like summer and spring is creeping into my skin. I want silks and open windows. I want to be the girly from some 1930's novella and sneak out with the help, get knocked up and knocked around by a poolhall junkie who smokes and kisses too hard and can't make love but leers and slobbers and makes me feel like an ashtray, though for years I'll confuse it with love and say he cherished me."

"I wonder how much women still wear thigh highs and how true it is that everyone in New York smokes all the time. The new grunge-chic culture of 'Ivy League' and Hope Gangloff makes me wonder if that's really what it's all about, this lifestyle that I've been dreaming of, lusting after since I could drink and wear heels. Jennifer's life. The life of the time traveler's wife and maybe the honest life of the artist. Maybe we have to indulge in glamourous, life-threatening sins to feel or to numb at appropriate times. How much bullshit is that"

"I'm going to write all of this and pretend you're a character, that you're a fictional character in my very real life, the Lear thrown in next to my Henry V. I will fight and be brave and monologue and think you're a fool and that I should poison you and steal your land. I will want to be something you cherish the most but I wont be able to communicate because I don't speak French. I'll immortalize this idealized version I have of you and you wont recognize yourself. You'll laugh at me when I tell you the truth and think I'm even more of a child than you already do.

I'm amazed sometimes at much I don't understand you, how much I think for you and make choices on your behalf. Maybe I don't want to see what you really are, I don't want to think that I've given pieces of myself to someone who's less than shiney and perfect. Maybe I've made you up completely and you don't exist at all, not in reality, not the way I think you do."

I have also decided that I want a polaroid camera.

However, I need to save funds for my new abode, so if anyone is feeling generous, wants to show their love and admiration and knows that flowers just wont cut it, or is searching for that perfect opening night present... you know where this is going.

thank you for your time.

I am indulging in my sins at the moment and watching Penelope. I just wanted to the world to know.

It's delicious over here.

...to the feeling of turned out plaid pockets and impromptu bowling. Being somewhere where I don't have to drink, look sour or swear to enjoy and be enjoyed.

The feeling of french music and cold pizza.

of dancing about the living room, imagining I'm waltzing with Luke Skywalker and saying something impeccably charming.

enjoying the new phone and the picture-taking ability of this lovely image-based reality I've succumbed to.

Hall and Oats.

Listing listlessly but feeling a little dull and sluggish, red wine sluggish, and longing for my sweet secret tucked away in my purse. Making no sense, not even to me anymore and not trying to find meaning.

enjoying my nailpolish.

Looking around and realizing that I have become Jennifer "24" Kirk, with a few less sling-back heels in my closet. I have effectively swallowed her habits and style and I'm what I've always wanted to be.

i'm le stoked.

I misspelt the world and I'm licking the bad grammar off of my fingers.

I'm currently reveling in the feeling of holding back legitimate sobs.

My dog ran away. You left the gate open and he ran away. I hate you.

An empty cracked-apartment is the dream that keeps me going.
I imagine all of my stuff in some wreck of a building, eating raman and watching movies on my POS tv, while my guests lounge on the pleather couch, smoke and eat pizza.
I imagine all the stuff I have right now and nothing new, nothing glamourous, just mine.
I imagine my freedom and my debt, my dog on the floor and the chewed pieces of rawhide.
I imagine coke cans strewn about, empty bottles of wine as flower vases and bras hanging to dry in the shower.
I imagine soft, red lamp-light and no AC.
I imagine being so blind to my misery that I'm happy.

I feel free. From everything. I feel much stronger. I feel much more sure in my footing. I know what my footing is.

I am 24 years old.
Next year I will be 25, a quarter of a century.
The year after I will be 26.
Then 27.
Then 28.
and so on and so on...
Then I will die.
This is inevitable and not frightening.
I wonder what it will be like?

I sat in the bath tub for ten minutes, running my hands over my legs and marveling at their softness. Honestly marveling. And dare I say reveling. I wanted to take the simplicity of that moment to my bed and continue it Nothing sexual, just a larger canvas to explore on. I can't remember the last time I felt myself, really stretched my fingers across my skin. I could be doing that now, right now, but I thought I should document this emotion, this thought, this feeling, write something down while my fingers felt useful and my brain was switched on.

So instead of skin, I'm feeling up the keyboard. I'm watching my fingers, newly clipped, skip across the plastic and I'm having the smallest remembrance of a conversation tonight about the soothing quality of typewriters - the sound of mechanical clicking and the feeling of usefulness.

I am watching my fingers and thinking they look like something from urban outfitters. They look like something vintaged and chic that I bought for far too much money and are now dangling at the end of my wrist, proving their price and worth with the awesome look of their clacking and quacking away at the keyboard. I have this habit of rubbing the inside of my pinkies with my thumbs. The skin has been warn down there and and is smooth like a burn scar. Every once in a while I stop typing to indulge in the smooth scars on the inside of my pinkies. It's an addiction, the feeling of smoothness on my body. My pinkies, my thighs, my hair. I started twirling it when I was little so I could make perfect ringlets and then rub them against my lips. Classmates used to think I was eating my hair but I wasn't. I was rubbing the strands against my lips and enjoying that feel of softness on softness, enjoying the way my unwashed hair smelt like me and not like shampoo and perfume.

... has the best bookmark ever.

My thick, green, carpetbag of a coat is hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. I put it on to run outside in the rain. It's a thick summer rain, warm and heavy with fat, stinging drops.

The laundry from last night's show is washing in the garage and the warm smell of the running dryer and sudsing detergent in wafting through the front of the house. It feels like a warm, soap smelling oven and the steady, grey dripping outside is comforting in a drowsy, monotonous way. I'm reading 'Time Traveler's Wife' and the house is echoing the feel of the pages, comfortable and sleepy.

I hate holandaise sauce.

So.

Something has changed within me. Something is not the same.

I don't know what, exactly, and I'm not in anything close to a hurry to find out. I figured out that when I over think my life, my choices, and whatever bits of inspiration I get or impulses to make myself over I immediately categorize whatever's going on and them somehow it stops. It disappears, takes an about face and I'm back into needs-to-be-changed land.

Not gonna do that this time, mainly because I can't. I have no idea what got rewired but I am enjoying the hell out of the circuitry now.

I am my sunshine, my only sunshine. I make me happy when skies are grey...

So.

I am tired.

I am wet in a way I can't seem to shake... it rained today, you twits, at rehearsal and I'm soaked through and through. I am surrounded by wet clothes and I feel absolutely saturated.

I have come to a finish. I must move out of my mother's house. I am currently saving my sweet little fingers off so that I can get out on my own as soon as possible. I am washing clothes, throwing away trash and keeping my door shut, things I am not particularly used to. I am becoming secretive and slightly organized and responsible, at least as much as I can muster at the moment. Maturity takes time to get the hang of, I'm finding.

If nothing else, pushing myself towards this big change is taking my mind off of all the little things that are bothering me at the moment and lets be honest, this is a little thing. At the moment it feels like I'm being scooped out, I can feel my limbs shake and go weak, it's hard for me to type. My body's malfunctioning and I'm mad at it for this. I want to shut all this off, to make myself just snap out of this but I can't seem to make myself. Do I really enjoy this feeling? 'Cause it doesn't feel like it. This is not pleasant. That cannot be what this is. Am I weaker than my emotions? Am I honestly feeling something? How does this work, it's all very strange.

However, I am drowning my momentary sorrows in busy work and bettering myself. Hopefully. I think this is good.

I don't want to tell the story anymore. I am done with reliving the words.

Things will be better. Something will calm inside me and I will use this to my advantage. I can see myself waking up some morning in the future and seeing things more rosily. I can actually see this as the beginning of coming to honest to god grips with myself. No one will love me until I love myself. I'll find when I stop looking. I'm going to look for myself for a while and maybe figure some stuff out.

Yea.

Still hurts, though.