Mon coeur sur ma manche

Building...sandcastles in the sand...
(In the tea pot room.)

I keep forgetting how your words sound. Your words sound good in my mouth, in my lungs, in my organs of Corti (that doesn't seem so long ago, ago, ago, ...). Like the squelching of my new rubber boots in the puddles, or the squeals when I drive through them, or how I sound in my head, when I sing The Last Five Years. We're not fighting it, anymore, just kneading it out, just letting it go, like my hair, or your eyelashes, or the way those sit on my hips, your hands, I mean. My nails keep growing, and I keep forgetting how much I don't like them.
That's where I wear it- on my sleeve, everything's on the tip, tip, tip of my tongue, tongue, tongue, and it spills over- like the milk from the chai tea latte in progress this morning, like the tea dates, like "Did you get my text?" except it's not funny because you did, and I don't even care, and scarves, scarves, scarves, like my grandmother's.
I can't play my own Broadway music.
It doesn't sound right with the right hand notes all missing, or wrong.
Then it shouldn't make sense why I still love it so much.
Why I still love it all so much.
Or maybe it's just me (and you. Always you.)

And there are people who are not ever going to be let go.

Did it hurt, did you feel it? Of course you did. I felt it, too, like an earthquake interrupting that baby laughter. And it was good. And I wish I was better, at this, like you don't think you are. But you are. Do not eat the cats. Eat your vegetables instead,

Ce n'est pas une teste

I'm losing it. Losing that space, that distance, that disparity. The sureness, of where I was going yesterday, tomorrow, in between. There is just this thronging, jazz-hand filled part of me.

Pas trop tard

Wishful thinking. I had it all planned out. We were going to be wonderful


(and I said)

wonderful


(and they said)

I don't actually know that song.

Well, school is almost done. What else is there to say? I still don't really know where I'll be in...3...months time. Well, I do. But I'm hoping that maybe I don't know it yet. I guess I don't give good first impressions. Or none of them had to ever suffer through Grade 10 Piano. Oh well. I'm still content. Contentedly upset. Flowers. Green. Flowers, green and rain. Repeat it, like a mantra.
(Also, by myself).
(And I don't remember how to make friends.)


And a song, someone sings...

C'est tout

Rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel

J'ai besoin de 13 mains

I was a bird, I was a lover.
I am a fighter, a fighter jet ski.
No use trying,
No point denying
And the fork ran away with the spoon.
Je suis un coureur de bois, et je suis d'accord.

(It makes me sick. Physically ill. My heart rises up into my throat and I just don't think that's where it should be. I learned about that, last year in Bio 20. I liked Bio 20. Where did Bio 20 go? I misplaced it, in my mind, along with everything else that was there. I don't actually care about the class, you do know. That's not the point. Knot. Knot. Tie. Tie. Tiger suit. Say no more, say no more.)

And when there was thunder, she'd say, "It's just the angels moving their furniture." Her voice, bright as


as what? You're always supposed to know what comes next. That is the rule. Rules. Spools of thread. Basting thread. Throw it together, loose. Loose. Like camel pants. Like graduation robes.

The sad, sad truth. No. It's not sad. I can see cherry blossoms, greens, rain, best friends, singing, Sunday dinners, wild Pacific salmon, blacks, plain clothes, people. Living. Breathing. I can almost touch. But then, but then, and then, and then. Say no more, say no more. Just breathe. Just lay your head down, and breathe onto me, into me, through me, so close, 


close


real distance, as we measure it


twilight

Dans mon coeur, et dans ma famille

There is something about letters, and something about coziness, and something about bear scratches on my arms that always bring me back to you. 94670778 seconds, 113607360 heartbeats, (probably more if you consider the strength at which yours beats), and so many lovely, funny smiles. Lovely, funny hands. Lovely, funny kisses.

We're going someplace, unpredictable.
(But in the end, it's right.)

...I made a promise to myself.

Un million d'etoiles, un milliard de secondes

There was a single pebble, dropped in a single pool, somewhere in a forest, far far away.
And you know what ripples do. We all know what ripples do.
I feel like I'm being a little bit pushed to the edges right now. The edges of the fabric. The little frayed bits. The edges of the ocean; the white foamy bits. The edges of the circulatory system; those little tiny capillaries at the ends of my fingers that never seem to exchange any oxygenated blood with deoxygenated blood, because they are always cold.

Remember those times, when the light is shining, and the audience is clapping? Remember those times. Things are coming up too fast. Let's play Whac-A-Mole. But not actually. Remember those times. All those, all those hands, held tight, through thin and thick, thick and thin. Hands, hands, erotic hands. Exotic hands? Esoteric hands? Earnest hands. Important hands. 


Like yours. Warmth and strength and so many, many minutes where words were forgotten or whispered or yelled or pushed or pulled or weaved or crocheted or held or cherished or appreciated or adored. The sun is still shining. I remember hills of green. I remember swings. I remember never letting go, and haircuts to match Carey Mulligan's. Don't forget. Please don't forget.
It's not like I could.
On me, and in me, and all around me. For so long I don't remember otherwise.

Rien d'importance

And then I remember, this is only the start
How much I love the rain
Sweeping, taking, running, loving.
Sweeping me away.
Off my feet,
to the sound of my
alarm clock?

Hands, that take, the sting from pain.
And I feel so lucky. And so wordy. And so out of words. Or maybe we don't need them?
Replaced? Refurnished?
That's quite comfy.
Actually.

Zut alors!

Phlegm, be gone.

It's...it was...that is, it is very...human...izing.


Off to meet my future. I'm going to fall into place. I'm willing myself. Snippinh myself down to fit into that teensy tiny place in the middle of that rainy city by the ocean that I love so much. My hands are reaching, though. My arms can barely touch. They're not that long. I know that I can hold on. There's so much here to grab.
Paperweight.

Malade? Maladroite?

There's that feeling again, where the chicken I've actually been trying to catch among the millions and millions in the 'Chicken of Happiness' cage has been following me, pecking at my heels all along. The satisfaction that it was looking for me, too. I don't see much a compromise there. It's unhealthy, I know, to give up everything, turn down the white chicken, the pig dressed as a chicken, and all the baby chickens, just for the chance at spotting that one brown spotted chicken, but what if...What if you can't be happy, without that one chicken? What if, by compromising and settling for the lesser chickens, you are rendered disappointed and have the mindset of a tragic hero and can never truly be happy with the dilapidated chicken?

Chickens are not smart animals.


There will be compromises. There are going to be myriads of compromises, matching the tears rolling down the stuffy noses, the kisses on necks, stomachs, fingernails, the promises and the commas in our voices where they are being made. Nobody likes to worry. Nobody likes to think about the future. It comes soon enough as is. But when I'm falling, falling, falling into dangerous freckled places and I'm taking the risk and I'm willing to...compromise...
You'll step up. You're awful strong.

Les mots qui n'existe pas

L’esprit de escalier: (French) The feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said. Translated it means “the spirit of the staircase.”

Waldeinsamkeit: (German) The feeling of being alone in the woods.

Meraki: (Greek) Doing something with soul, creativity, or love.

Forelsket: (Norwegian) The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.

Gheegle: (Filipino) The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute.

Pochemuchka: (Russian) A person who asks a lot of questions.

Pena ajena: (Mexican Spanish) The embarrassment you feel watching someone else’s humiliation.

Cualacino: (Italian) The mark left on a table by a cold glass.

Ilunga: (Tshiluba, Congo) A person who is ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.

Luciole

"...you will be sent to the special circle of hell. The one reserved for child molesters and people who talk in the theatre."

Happiness is:
+ running when it's sunny out
+ making pasta sauce
+ being called a ladybug
+ breakfast cereals
+ when you laugh at everything I do
+ my dynamic-duo future modelling career with alisa
+ how mr. macmillan is in a terminally good mood
+ do you see this shiny, laughing, supportive, stable (sometimes), smiling person?
+ i hope you do. i can't see me, even though you always try to make me.
+ and i hope you know why i am this way

I'd walk through hell for you, let it burn right through my shoes
These soles are useless without you.


RIP Peachy. <3

Un llama, une embrasse

And I was made for sunny days, and I was made for you.

And you, and nothing but you, miles and piles of you.

When I'm walking, when I'm thinking, when I'm talking, when people are talking, I get all chokey-scared. I hate this feeling. Nothing is worse than this feeling. It's the standing-up-on-stage with laryngitis and no memory of ever learning your lines feeling. It's the head-pounding, faint feeling after you slam your thumb in a locker. It's the falling, falling feeling you get when you're standing on a bridge, far too high up to be safe, with monkeys picking at your cuticles.
That place is giving me nightmares. The happiness and freedom and life that seems to emanate, like a stench, from its ugly, boring, plain buildings. That I am too late for. I don't know if I'm enough. How do I know that I'm enough if nobody tells me? How do I know that I'm enough when nobody looks me in the eye? 
I'm not a trap. I'm not unforgiving. I'm not insensitive. I try not to be selfish.
I'm just cold, and willing to put my heart on my sleeve and leave it dangling for anyone to rip off.


I shouldn't say anything else.
Not a fortune-teller. I just believe in faith. And you. And me.

Plus que toi, plus que ca

no less, no more
but o,
so much more
more than you will
ever
carry?
(you carry me, you carry my heart, in your truth)
no hidden
meaning
no trump card
just me, i am here,
o, so much more
than
this

My skin won't be quenched. My hands can't be warm (except if I'm with you). This road willn't end, I keep on running, and running, and running,
And I am waiting for the last float, but it's not coming. I don't think it ever will.
The fireworks, the parade, they just keep on coming. I love fireworks.
(It's easy, repeat after me. Now you. No, you. No, you.)

Trop jeune, trop emotionnel

And it was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for.
(They said we were far too young).

Revisiting scripts, the words I wrote, the promises I broke, the lines I crossed, the chords I scrabbled with, the bruises I hid away, from you, from me, from the world. It hurts me. It hurt(ed) you. There is nothing I want to do more than to take everything back, shove it into a hole and bury, bury, bury...until the sun was purple and nothing you could say could make me remember, not you say, those things, not that, I'm complaining. It's not that. It's in my heart. And you don't understand, maybe, that nothing can bring me there again, to where I hurt(ed) you. Where the universe was taking a nap. Naps are nice. Naps on you. Like a cat. Like a lion. Pet me, purr. Bless, the, dawn, someone, reach, out, branches.
Touching me, with your branches, in a nest, on that branch, where you branch(ed).
When you...when I...why didn't it...why did I...
Well, I'll wait now.
Heart on my sleeve.

And it was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for.

(They said we were far too young).

Depuis mon retour au monde

I need to get out- I want to go somewhere. Go somewhere far, far away.
I want to go on a trip. To somewhere full of lights, and maybe full of ocean. I don't need sand, or palm trees, or sweltering sun. I like a good cloudy day more than you'd think. I want to lie somewhere, maybe in a field, maybe in a forest, maybe on a teaspoon. Listening to branches hit trees. Listening to waves, jostling the sea turtles around. Listening to bubble wrap burst. Close your eyes and don't breathe. Far under the water, everything is silent except the buzzing of the stinging of your eyes to the salt. Kisses are salty. Lungs are straining. You can't reach the ground.
And if you needed to reach me, I can't be reached. You, and you, and you, you, and you are already there with me. I don't think anyone else really needs to see, we can't be seen, we can do appalling things....
Double letters are my downfall. Toboggan, committee, appalling...
If you can count to four, say 'sunflower' and meet me there.

Muette

And how could I
Stand here by you
And not be moved by you?

Un retour au passe

...Don't walk in front, I may not follow. Don't walk behind, I may not lead.
If you stay right with me and we'll get there.
I promise...

And now, we're here again. I'll probably lose my thumb nail, and my mind, and I'm going to be so, so sore for a long, long time. But the fact of the matter is, this here, is what I need, where I flourish, where I stand the straightest. And your hands are so warm. I don't know what happened to those flowers. Walk with me, for awhile.

Mes pensees

Une developpement interressante

Captivating, irrational, absurd, quizzical, subtle, laughable, genuine, indeterminate, finessed, sarcophagus.

I like how the human mind jumps. I like how it literally bounds from one word, one sentence, one fragment, to another that has no correlation whatsoever. I like that. I don't like that it is Wednesday already. Because that means that we are running out of freedom, and my goodness do I love freedom when the sun is shining so brightly outside and my knee is letting me run, run, run. 
Feelings are odd things. Mine are funny shaped, but they fit into those slots that yours leave, like enzymes and the things that enzymes go into, do you remember the word? I don't. I also don't know anything about Oedipus Rex. I also am pretty much done with him, I think. It's almost April. Do you know how much I like April? Do you? I'm not sure you do. April sounds hopeful to me. April means spring time, to all those who don't live in Calgary. April sounds like a laughing baby...red panda. 


I got it from my mother. 
Never again.


I'd like a tropical vacation. I keep picturing the squashed avocados on our morning runs.
I'd like to sing, forever.
I know that I'll belong. But you do too. Come along.

I'm going to put on my grad dress again.

Le paradis n'est pas si loin

And when I see your (...)
And when you say my (...)
My heart skips a

Suddenly, the air is warmer, the chai tea/coconut cupackes taste even sweeter, the tips of fingers feel alive again, my voice is soaring, I am soaring. The air pocket in my lungs that was stopping my breath from passing through has popped. Things rearranged. I rearranged. There is someone in that spotlight, across from me, even if he is wary of being up on stage, in front of so many people. His hand is resting on the chair, and he is heading to downstage center, just where he is supposed to meet me. I keep telling myself to break a leg, break an arm, break my neck. Anything but. 
I will follow you into the dark.


Kittens in an umbrella, spinning, spinning, spinning, spitting.

"We used to call it his furry little problem...people were under the impression James was in possession of a badly behaved rabbit."

Things Beowulf must learn from Voldemort:
"You'd think that killing people would make people like you. But...it doesn't. It just makes them dead."

Par expret

• Been watching too much Grey's Anatomy: had dream about brain tumor and Patrick Dempsey was talking to me about treatment options. 
• I like Grey's Anatomy- I don't like the main character, but I like the other ones. I like how Supernatural has gotten basically ALL of its guest stars off of this show.
• Sundays make me upset because there is no crossword.
• I don't like writing comparative essays. I really prefer argumentative ones.

• Angel wings spread over water worn wishes
  Guarding the dreams and the things left unsaid

  

En Italie

I want a puppy, a kinder surprise, a superman sweater, the moon (in a basket), a green dress, a blanket-sharer, a pair of sturdy boots, freckles, (things that I can't ask you for), the muscles in my legs, two more hands (makes four, not thirteen, I'm not asking for thirteen), a finished essay, a travel mug that actually keeps my tea hot, hot not warm, onenightjustone, a new pair of pants, a prophetic dream, a kiss, a new knee, that's all I think,

Je suis repetitive, mais toi, tu ecris des eceureils

you'd think that people would have had enough of
silly love songs

my mother stole my crossword
(probably while listening to cbc radio 2)

Later, we'll make fun of these moments that we both know happen...but pretend to ignore for the other's sake. Later, you'll put your hands on my face and we'll just laugh. Later, I'll rest my chin on your shoulder while you dance to bad music. Later, you'll sit in between my legs with your guitar. Later, I'll act embarrassed and denying but you'll know that I like it anyways. Wrap myself in a book, wrap myself in you.
I'm embarrassing.


I should probably be looking up poetry.
I've found out that I prefer Spanish poetry.

La grande colline verte, qui se transforme en ciel azure, a la fin du monde, apparemment. Nous, comme un troupeau de moutons silencieuses qui passons par cette maison ancienne, burine, battue. Le son de la vent et les melodies Ecossais alternant dans mes oreilles. Mes mains sont lourdes et mes yeux, les yeux de ma grandmere, ma mere, mes soeurs, mes yeux n'ont jamais ete ouvert comme ceci. Ma grandmere, dans mes yeux, dans mes mains, dans les mains de mon grandpere, qui pleure des larmes paisibles. Ma mere, mes tantes, leurs yeux, leurs mains. La main de ma soeur dans la mienne, partageant notre grandmere dans nos mains libres et dans les larmes qui tombent de les yeux de ma grandmere. Je n'ai jamais cru dans la spiritualite avant que je l'ai vu avec les yeux de ma grandmere.

Elle est comme un oiseau

The universe has definitely righted itself. Hannah, you are one smart cookie.
(Mmm...cookies...I remember what cookies taste like...)


In following tradition of opening with a Broadway stanza:
That's why, I couldn't be happier...


And apparently this blog will be written
In this format. See the picture? Becoming clearer? Oh good.


You have the most piercing eyes. You have the warmest laugh. You tease me and tickle me and poke me. I love it. I pretend not to. You're not allowed to use that against me, because this is all in my head. Is it in your head? You're in my head. You have my Snuggie. Give it back. I want to sing songs with you. I want to hold your hand. I don't want to sing that song with you. I don't want to be just another cliche. Any more than I already am, I guess. You have dry hands. But they are comforting. They release oxytocin (from my anterior pituitary) into my bloodstream.
You make me remember what it's like to be me again. I never said thank-you for that.
"Gravity is not responsible for people falling in love." -Albert Einstein
When the space-time contiuum rights itself, my do things ever go along smoothly. Like peanut butter. Fucking peanut butter. Now if only those bitches would get out of our spot.

Me Gustas Cuando Callas

Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.

Como todas las cosas estan llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mia.
Mariposa de sueno, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolia.

Me gustas cuando callas y estas como distante.
Y estas como quejandote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
dejame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.

Dejame que te hable tambien con tu silencio
claro como una lampara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.

Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.

-Pablo Neruda

Toujours pur

It's something unpredictable.

Life, I mean.

New socks can really change a girl's perspective. They'll give her a good day. Once in a while, all you need is a new pair of really nice socks. Or an old pair, that you find again, and all of a sudden you remember how comfortable, warm, and thrilling they are, and then, of course, they bring you a bouquet of droopy but beautiful flowers and life is just, well, good. Or so they say. They say lots of things. And right now, I couldn't agree more with them.

Let me count the ways...

Les mots d'action

Better? Than this dazzling plot?

I have made a habit of staying up late reading English homework (and not actually doing it) and just ending up writing silly things that usually open with a line from a Broadway song that is running through my head at the moment. But they tend to sort of relate...whimsically...cryptically...to life as we know it...as I know it...
My body is stressed. My body is tired. It's telling me to stop what it is I'm doing, shut down, take a nap, curl into a ball, read some silly French mountaineering book, arrest the pondering process, discontinue the jarring of leg joints. Stop feeling disappointed and frustrated in things you have no control over.
If you didn't WANT me, why did you PICK me, and then choose to make me feel bad about it? You always do this, mind you. Silly artsy folk. 
I think I fall under the silly artsy folk category.
But I think I stand with at least one or two toes in a more practical category.
I think that is why there is always so many ideas pushing and shoving and being generally impolite in my brain at any given moment. Maybe this is why I can't focus on English homework. Maybe this is why I can't even focus on sleeping.

Is there a button, somewhere, to press? Is it marked clearly? Is it color-coded? Does it make a satisfying beeping noise, and will I know it when I hear it? Will things suddenly be clearer, warmer, richer, solid? Solid.
Solid.
Solid.
Solidity. Strength. Comfort.
Enough with the adjectives- get on with the verbs.

Un plus beau sourire

See, you're laughing
And I'm smiling
By a river, in Ohio
And you're...


Today was an okay day. It was a WWJRBD day. It was a moving day. It was a fast day. It was a startled success day. It is a finished day. It is a sleeping-with-an-ice-pack day. It was a preparation day. It was a Monday. It was my last sugary day until Spring Break. So the entire month of March will not be sugar-free...just the next 3 weeks. Maybe.

Stalling, waiting, watching, thinking, typing, icing, breaking, opening.

C'est ici que j'arrete

Pourquoi j'ecris?

Just like a Blue Rodeo song, I'm telling you.

Blue Rodeo is my favourite band. I'm really not ashamed to admit it. 

My favourite musical is about two gay boys in a Catholic boarding school. It's not by Jason Robert Brown.

I feel like an impostor when I'm reading English AP books.

I want to paint on a canvass bigger than me.

I want to dance again. 

I don't know why I thought anyone would be interested in reading this list.

PAS DE TITRE.

This isn't what I planned for, let's go back
back
back

back some more
just right
what a shame

and she fights for her life as she puts on her coat...

My plans never work. I can already feel this one failing. And I won't let myself become emotionally invested in this again.
What do I say?
What do I do?
What do I want?
Why can't this be over?
Why can't I read minds?

Verbs I am bad at:
Grasp. Hold. Tighten. Grab. Contain. Clutch. Possess. Keep. Bind. Adhere. Retain. Wield. Need.

Maman! Maman!

Way to go. I've just realised.
Real. Isation. Oh, what the fuck.

Purpose, purpose, purpose, purpose, porpoise.
Perhaps a stranger, she could love.

You always support my everchanging moods, minds, and eccentricities. Considering where we've been...I appreciate it more than you know. Judgments are never made. You just understand me. AC, I love you. And I'm not talking about air conditioning.

J'apprends de nouvelles choses

• This is a list. This is a list of things. Lots of things. Thingie things, nonthingie things. Things that don't make sense, things that won't make sense, things where it doesn't matter if they make sense or pertain to everyday regular life at all. Why would it? They?
• Like grammar. I am a grammar afficiando, generally. Except for my love of run-on sentences.
• I think I know why my favourite color is purple. That was strange to realise that, today. My favorite color used to change all the time. It's been purple for an eerily long time. 
• When I was little, my auntie bought her two cars according to what my favourite color was at the time.
• I am irresponsibly attached to songs about brown eyes.
• I am listening always for hidden meanings in songs about brown eyes, to see whether they were really written about me. I am self-absorbed. We're all self-absorbed though, so that's okay.
• I don't like poetry in English class.
• I don't like you at all.
• I feel lonely.
• I feel crowded.
• I feel hopeful.
• I feel realistic.
• I want to move to a warmer place, where I can pick flowers and wear sundresses and paint with only blues and purples.
• My favourite type of flower is a tigerlily. My favourite jewel is an amethyst. 
• It troubles me that I don't know whether I am a cat person or a dog person. It feels like this is a fatal character flaw.
• My Kiwanis classes are eerily close. I wish I was more anxious about them.
• There is no fence.
• So many things that people say remind me of musical theater songs. Every third sentence. It's a bit worrisome.
• I don't understand the world's obsession with owl jewellery, but I kind of like it. I like owls. Maybe I am an owl person. 
• That is a lie. 
• Birds are gross.

Les choses a faire:

1. Learn to drive. NO. Learn to park. I can drive. I can't park.
2. Take myself off this coupon-e-mail-list thing that my name somehow got on: they send me daily coupons that are like, 62% off speed-dating! Half off modern children's art! Buy one mop, get another four mops free! 
3. Stop drinking so much steamed milk. The lactase in my stomach is being overwhelmed and I fear I'm becoming lactose intolerant. Is that possible? To develop lactose intolerance? That information is not centralized in the hippocampus, so it's a little beyond my field of expertise.
4. Except apparently I should be a doctor. Maybe if that whole Broadway actress gig doesn't work out.
5. And they develop a new type of doctoring that doesn't require much blood-seeing.
6. Or develop a new type of Lyndsay that isn't so squeamish.
7. Prance around house in grad dress (again.)
8. Practice singing. I forget how again.
9. Stop. Stop stop stop.
10. Go!

Ou?

I feel sort of like I was at a restaurant, or a party, a nice calm fun time, when all of a sudden a huge pelican swooped in the window, starting asking around for me, and I then ducked into the closet, which turned out to be a long hallway that kept getting smaller as you walked through it, and the pictures of sea turtles on the wall were talking to me and easing me on, telling me to keep going, and then I got to the end of the hallway and there was this door that was small and spinning and I could just squeeze through, but first I had to answer a skill-testing question, but luckily it was about hippocampuses (hippocampi?) so I passed, and then I went through the door and found myself knee-deep in salt water, and Calypso the sea goddess told me to keep the Bear on my left-hand side if I was to reach home, so I set out, only to discover myself being led astray by dancing shrimp, who told me I was needed as an addition to their Broadway number, but they had no Jews so they couldn't make it on Broadway even after I rehearsed with them for a few hours, so they dropped me off at the bus station where I got on a bus that went straight into an sand dune, where I hiked up and down with some visiting elephants who were quite knowledgeable about the area, and then they told me to take a nap up on their backs because I was getting rather tired and the moonlight was oh so warm on the soles of my feet and I woke up in a small room that smelled of tigerlilies and was covered in lace, and all I had was a typewriter, and I entered a code and the whole room fell open like a box and I found myself sitting on a surfboard on an iceberg in a green velvet suit, and when I fell off I fell through the ice that was surprisingly warm and I landed on a ferry boat that was strung in fairy lights and people were waltzing in long purple dresses and I waltzed with a mysterious partner in sunglasses, and it felt so familiar but I couldn't place him without seeing his eyes, and then he disappeared into a swarming throng of hummingbirds that suddenly appeared and they pushed me overboard, where I landed on a mattress in a bedroom that was not my own, and when I left I realised it was a shoe, and the Old Lady in the Shoe ran screaming out telling me to get back to bed, and she clobbered me so hard with her rolling pin I fell unconscious and when I woke, I was floating on a large playing card (the Queen of Spades) in the middle of the ocean and I had no idea how I got there.

I have two beautiful new dresses, and I had just the de-stressing weekend full of shopping, puppies, and aunties that I needed. I miss puppies. Can someone lend me theirs?

I miss things I cannot understand, or begin to understand. Can someone lend me theirs?

Les mots ovaires

Hello again, followers of the blogosphere. I realize it's a bit obnoxious to be blogging twice in one day, but seems how my other was completely meaningless I figure it's excusable. It's also too late for me to be doing anything else....

Because. Fine. Ok. Whatever.

These are ovary words.
If you use them, you are classified as a woman. Especially when you use them in conjunction. As in, "How is your cat today? Why is he feeling that way?"

"Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because."

This is an example of when an ovaried person answers a non-ovary question. Ovaried wasn't actually a word until now, by the way. I do shit like that. Make up words. I'm outta control.

Also, that is just fucking beautiful. Really. Fucking defucking vanfucking beautiful. Not you. Not that. No, you don't know what I'm talking about. But you sure made it seem like you wanted to. Or something. Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because.

(I have ovaries and I'm not afraid to use them.)

Also, I love my best friend. She is special and she drinks tea and appreciates the foam on top of the tea and doesn't judge when I use my fingers to scoop the rest out of the bottom even though it is highly unhygienic and probably in proper society would be frowned upon. But who gives a shit, because we are fucking beautiful. Yeah. I did go there.
Boys? You are not fucking beautiful. Except the ones in Whistler? I think. Man-o-man, if whatsisface reads this blog, he is going to be singing in the fucking rain with happiness right now. And if not, well then, well, fine. Okay. Whatever. Because.

Also, you missed your fucking queue. And now I have to perform a monologue where they should have been dialogue. The lights broke and the fell on the chair that you were supposed to throw across the stage when you came in the door but you didn't come in the door, did you, no, you were off in the wings, waiting in the wings, always you are waiting in the fucking wings, and now the whole scene is ruined, in fact maybe the play is over, the audience has gone home, they didn't stand up, they didn't clap, they just went, and I'm stuck here with the single wilted rose that was thrown haphazardly by the screaming toddler in the second row and the lines I don't recall and the stage makeup melting off my face.
Get out of the wings, or go home.

That's quite enough of that.

Brought to you by (your friendly neighbourhood hippocampudoctorologist) and Allison Carter, who doesn't write blogs anymore and who therefore had a lot of repressed blogangst, which is also a word, and who is going to start up with that shit soon.

Du journal intime d'une hippocampudoctorologiste:

I didn't actually have anything to say, I just really wanted to post this as a title. Maybe I'll get some comments. Who knows. That might be crazy. 

"According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with 4 arms, 4 legs and a head with 2 faces. Fearing their power, Zeus separated them into two parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."

- Plato

Erin, I'm sorry for stealing that. It was a direct steal. And I am not going to pretend it wasn't. But I think that it might have made my day, and I've had a pretty solid day. 

But there's nothing to report.

Not yet, at least.

This blog entry, is completely pointless (even moreso than usual)

Moreso is definitely not a word

Things I learned today:

.....

Sincerely,

Your friendly neighbourhood hippocampudoctorologist

Lamentation

"Give me a reason. I beg you."

I can't wait to be done.
I can't wait to be new.
I think I'm done.

I'm no pretender.

Ceci n'est pas une titre

And this is why, my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen

I'm no mind reader. I over-analyze body language, the exact frequency of a nervous giggle, redness of the cheeks, dampness of the palms, length (in cm) of the grin, and vocabulary used in a sentence, but I'm no mind reader. Usually, all the things I over-analyze mean next to nothing when placed beside the actual conscience thoughts zooming in and out of what's-your-face's head.

I'm bad with names, faces, places. I'm good with dates. I'm done if you're done, by the way. I'd rather get out alive now, while I have the chance. With all that dignity and shit.

I take pride in small accomplishments. Like getting my finger pricked and squeezed and not passing out.

I even take pride in being a rare blood type. I want to be set apart from the crowd. Oh, wait. Don't we all?

I listen to the same music as my father does.

I don't like that movie, A Walk To Remember. It's stupid. Don't talk to me about Mandy Moore. Don't talk to me about Nicholas Sparks. He's stupid too. I don't hate The Notebook as much as I hate A Walk To Remember, but seriously, "If you're a bird, I'm a bird?" How is that romantic? Birds are disgusting. Birds pass on disease. They poo on your head. They moult gross greasy feathers everywhere. They are huge and big enough to steal babies. I know what you're going to say. "That's not the point. The point is that Ryan Gosling (Gosling. That's ironic.) would choose to be whatever species Rachel McAdams is, because he just loves her so darn much. Except guess what, that's  stupid too. If someone said that to me, I would start caw-cawing angrily and muss up their hair with my sharp...talons...beak...thing.

I still see you. I do. And I know you see me. And I know what you're thinking. (I'm not a mind reader, though. I'm a mind knower.) But you don't realise that the chasm is filled with debris now, that is being sifted and organized and painted and cut and glued and doused in bneg blood and apple juice.

Holy moly, me oh my

Laissez vos murs tomber, s'il-vous-plait

I can't. I can't remember. It's too mushed up, mauled, grotesquely mutated. I can't help you anymore. I can't look. Plaited, plaits, plates. Plates to break. 
But we'll run out of time. So please. Please. I want to make you laugh again.
Or for the first time, if it didn't mean anything. 
Today's blog is brought to you in italics because it sounds more like whispering, in my head. Or like praying. But then again, I wouldn't know. I write down my prayers. It's called a journal.
Is it weird that I have a blog and a journal?
And still have thoughts running through my brain at 50 mph?

Things I remember:
This one time, Rachel described me as lion-hearted. 
It's one of those things that stay with me and every time I need it, it's there. Like a bobby pin.
Like Rachel.


If you're proud of something, put it in your backpack, show it off. Like sheep.

Les plans diaboliques

Get on it. Get off it. Get on it. Get off it.
Or just dance it off.
Yeah, I do that one best. Except now tomorrow, I may not be able to walk.
But I'm used to it by now. I guess. Getting there, at least.
Also, guess what, I feel like an idiot. Thanks.
No, not that. Don't make me Carly Simon your ass.
I don't hide. I won't hide. I refuse to hide. I have too much pride. To hide. I just like to rhyme. Thyme.
(+parsleysagerosemary, kthx)

Look, I'm sorry. It's not in the normal sense of the word, when I say I grew up with you, but I did. I did most of my growing alongside you. That is where I grew best, shaded and protected at times, but also absorbing enough energy and sunlight to properly photosynthesize or whatever. I avoided becoming what I didn't want to be. I am this person today because of all that growing that happened over cette periode de temps la.
It's like finding out that the forest was actually a cement block. That sort of cut off the air after you got too big. Or rather...yeah. Well. Metaphors never end up working so great for me.
Okay, the point is, I have to find a new energy source. Like switching from carbon to hyro...lic...ation...astor...propeller...power. Or like switching nail polish colors. Or like getting a new coat, or a new pair of socks. Actually, it's like none of those things.
It never, ever is.

It's not you, or what you did, or what you regret. It's the fact that you think it was the same. Listen to your friends.

Libraries...the buns of knowledge.
Or were buns the libraries of knowledge?
Can you have any other kind of library, other than one of knowledge?

Laissez moi sortir pendant que je suis jeune

You have no right.
You have no right.
You have no right.

I don't know what to think. I actually am so angry that I don't know what to write without making it personal.
I guess because I don't know. I shouldn't assume
But for God's sake, what else could it be?

b)
I had a wonderful time tonight with friends that were not my own. Maybe I didn't make a horrible impression though, and I'll be allowed to come hang out with Hannah and her friends again. Because I don't think there is anything better to cheer you than 4 20-something boys who you don't really know dancing to 'Toxic' simultaneously. If you find something that cheers you up more than this, do share. Please. I'd be quite interested to know.

c)
No right.

Je t'aime depuis longtemps

Wow, hi best friend. Imagine running into you again.

Tears are real. Tears hurt. Especially when your friends seemingly abandoned you on the path of least resistance. I am so sorry. So, so sorry. Everything's a mess. And we weren't there to clean you up. Or I wasn't, for sure. I'm going to bring a mop next time though. There will be a next time soon.

So soon. Hello, deceptacon...
Pieces fall together. Pieces fall apart. However, I want to glue our fucking pieces together because I am impatient, confused, beating around the bush, unhappy but happy, confident and not, and altogether a jumbly mess because the pieces keep falling apart. And they need to stick together. Together is a much happier state than apart. Lo and behold.
Can't we be the kittens holding daisies in a rainstorm?
I'm sorry, that's the image I get when people compare their lives to puzzles, because it's so overdone.
(Like kittens holding daisies in a rainstorm.)

Did I mention....

When people are upset with me, avoiding me, or have a problem with me, I like them to tell me.
And I know everyone says that. But legitimately, tell me.
TELL ME.
TELLMETELLMETELLME.
Or else those kittens will turn into angry alleycats, their daisies will droop, and the rain will turn acidic.

I am in a dangerous mood right now. I plan to go for a run in the dark to placate my whirring brain.

And then, we sever...

Et aujourd'hui

1) When I see your face, I can't see it.
2) Or that.
3) I want to belong so badly. Because I feel separated from everything. Not in an angsty, emotional way. In a glass pane way, that is just not allowing me to touch you. And my voice comes out warbled. Usually. But in a big way, I wish that I could remember how to be new and exciting. I wish I could just fall backwards. And take a large-ish step and wonder what it would've been like.
Except then, of course...
I wouldn't be the same. And I won't be the same.
Yeah, this came out all wrong. Bottom line is...
I wish I remembered how to start, how to be interesting, and how to speak Englash good.
English AP, I need eloquence.
Literature, grant me the eloquence to...somethingsomethinghebebla. Here is an indie house. Nobody lives there.

Okay, let me try again.
Sometimes, I wonder if I could go back in time and just change one little thing, one decision, one...hebebla, if it would really have made such a huge impact. And also, if I was not the same person, (except I hate it when people say that, not the same person, No, Fuck you, you will always be the same person, bla bla bla essence bla but also helloooo genotypes), but disregarding that, if I was a little bit different, in what ways would I be different, and would I be better equipped to deal with things I have to deal with. Like, if I was in a video game, and let's say I died, (oh, approximately a few months ago?) and then I was sent back to the first level, and came out with different amounts of those little gold floating coins, or a smaller or larger amount of lives left, or just different magical throwing sheep or what have you. And so now I am on the same level, facing the eminent attack of the glittering gorilla guerillas where I misstepped last time (on an explosive Dark Peacock pebble) , but I have different assets, different allies, different...me. Different me.
Would I like this different me?
Would I accept a do-over, or would I just go to bed after I died the first time?
All this talk of dying.
It's just a metaphor, so you know. It's getting rather dark, though. Figuratively...Literally...Shmiterally...

Yeah, I'm done here.
Back into my indie house?

Les mains delicats, fins

"We take our miracles where we find them.
We reach across the gap, and sometimes, against all odds; against all logic...
We touch."

Mind your own beeswax, dress yourself properly, and slap on that charming smile and wit. 
And grace.
God, don't forget the grace.


I think I need a cat.

Poussez-moi

I could be violet sky

Welcome back, English AP. I have missed you.

I have a good feeling about this semester. I have good feelings. I have wondering feelings, also, about things I'm not allowed to wonder about anymore. Or, I guess, that are not my business. My decision. Decisions, after all.
And I have a good feeling about this.
My knee doesn't.
But he's a complainer.

I spend too much time on the verge.
On the brink.
On the edge.
And doing crossword puzzles.

I made this for you.


(I like to laugh. I want to be funny.)
(Like before.)

Je n'a pas beaucoup de temps

Tell me something. Talk to me. Tell me anything. Tell me about breakfast foods, if you want.
Just tell me.
Let me know.
Get back to me.
You know, when you can.
When it's convenient for you.
I want to be convenient.
I want to be more than convenient.
I want to be the most convenient thing.
The most amazing thing.

I don't know if that's me.

I like it when people smell nice.
But it's their own scent.
Not something else's.

I like it when people have their own individual, funny laugh.
I really like it when you can pick it out of a crowd, like a face or a certain pair of hands.
Or when they really like music.
People who like music are the very best kind of people.

Je veux le premier saison du O.C. ...est-ce-que quelqu'un peut m'aider?

Oh, and January?
That is quite enough of you.

Reasons to leave this month behind:
1. It is snowing and blowing and cold.
2. I cannot go outside for a run in my beautiful new running shoes.
3. I cannot go outside in my beautiful new boots that will be ruined in aforementioned snow, blowing, and cold.
4. February means I get to go to Denver in three weeks to pick out a grad dress and get away from all this.
5. Not that it won't be snowing, blowing and cold there, too;
6. But probably less snowing, blowing and cold.
7. January has seemed very, very long.
8. Maybe the change in monthly scenery (if you know what I mean) will give you a kick-start. Or rather, a return-to-the-start.
9. Cold, dry hands. Who needs them?
8. The second half of the end of our childhood starts in two days.
9. What's up with that?
10. That is quite enough out of you, Lyndsay.

11. I want to watch the O.C. . It is not on Netflix. Does anyone own the first season so that I can  borrow it and watch it?

La reve adolescente

Let you put your hands on me, 
In my skin-tight jeans.

It feels like there is a sordid lack of things to say or reflect upon as of late. I guess just because more of the same just keeps on happening, over and over, again, repeat, and I'm not really sure how I feel about that.
Wait, yes I do. I feel impatient. I am a very impatient person. If someone were to say I was a patient person, I would have to call them a liar. Or realize that they don't know me very well.
And that maybe they don't even want to.
Maybe they do, though.
They're elusive like that.

"It should be kept on the down-low. Like, in Australia probably."

It's kind of like our own inside joke, 
But it's not funny.