there is a hummingbird on my back

Sun, 02 Jan 2005 14:54:41 GMT

okay. so technically this journal is out of use, but . . . deal with me. I completely lost computer access for much of the christmas break, and then my internet died and modem had to be replaced, and then all my files disappeared. so the end of last year was not a good time for computer stuff. but I'm dealing with it, finishing gifts, working on stuff and . . . yes. but anyway, I'm not using this journal anymore. I get too antsy, too restless. I feel a little guilty but . . . oh well. I'm happily friending everyone at my new journal. of course, if you're completely disinterested and my posts (or I) irritate you, there's little point to continuing down this road together and I can say it was fun, I loved you and I wish you the best with all of my heart.

see anyone else at pagefiftythree.

adieu.

Sun, 26 Dec 2004 03:52:49 GMT

merry christmas.

pagefiftythree.
love,
rachel marie.

Tue, 21 Dec 2004 17:59:13 GMT

View Poll: one of these things first

Mon, 20 Dec 2004 18:38:33 GMT

two times over, I'm trippin'.

first of all, I have maxed myself out again. and I don't even know how that was possible, because I went thrifty with most of my gifts this year and made a lot of stuff. but I just got to school from the post office, and it turns out I've now spent over $300 this year. I don't know how it happened. I think I have a problem. so that means I cannot spend any more money. yet I still have more gifts to give and get -- for family and friends.

second of all, I think last friday was the first and only day I was really near getting into a serious fight with someone. and rest assured, I would've won. gotten bloody, but "preppy" and "girly" sides aside, I would've squashed both girls. and what was really frustrating was that it was over petty stuff and bullshit, and they were two people I generally considered "friends." but I went home and relaxed this weekend because I knew I wasn't in the wrong and I got the fuck over it. I came to school and saw one of the girls and really pleasantly said, "hi!" and she gave me this disgusted look and stormed off. much in the same way she did on friday, only on friday I almost made her cry (by doing nothing, I might add).

anyway. these next few days are a waste of time. eleven teachers didn't show up. bet you even fewer are coming tomorrow.

Tue, 14 Dec 2004 18:04:55 GMT

I feel like I don't have anything worth saying anymore. My parents got divorced last week. I'm tired all the time. I just want Christmas to come and then for it to be April and to get into college.

This is an article someone wrote about me for their journalism class, though they don't go to my school. Michelle, my best friend, has another best friend named Rachel D. from another school. Rachel and I, though we hadn't met for a long time, were sort of unspoken rivals. But she trailed me for a day, and then there's a bit at the end about my acting. Read it if you want, the article is under the cut. I, unfortunately, sound like a serious bitch in the first part . . . but I suppose it can't be helped, I was having a bad day that day.

----- Original Message -----
From: rachel dempsey
To: truthorrdare@hotmail.com
Sent: Tuesday, December 07, 2004 8:11 PM
Subject: Re: piece

thanks. you don't have to lie, i wouldn't be offended, but i re-read it today and it wasn't quite as bad as i had remembered. you can show it to rachel if she wants to see it. love, white rachel

>From: "Mimi Orr" <truthorrdare@hotmail.com>
>To: "rachel dempsey" <rwd1586@hotmail.com>
>Subject: Re: piece
>Date: Tue, 7 Dec 2004 19:55:09 -0500
>
>I love it Rachel..very well done, its very good. You should feel good about it.
>love, michelle
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: rachel dempsey
> To: truthorrdare@hotmail.com
> Sent: Tuesday, December 07, 2004 10:03 AM
> Subject: FW: piece
>
>
> >here it is--i know it's not the best thing i've ever written. but you wanted to see it, so...
> >love, rachel (dempsey)
> > >
> > > Her name is Rachel, but her friends sometimes call her Ray or Ratchel. She's a senior in high school, so like all seniors in mid-November, she thinks about college a lot. Her top choice is Yale. She hates Shakespeare and poetry and loves the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. She believes in ghosts. Sometimes when she's being sarcastic she acts so serious that people can't tell that she's joking. Her stories sound better in her head than they do when she tells them. She bites her nails.
> > > This girl's name is Rachel Douglas, although I could just as easily be describing myself. I have never met her before today, but Rachel and I are unsettlingly similar. Aside from a plethora of superficial parallels, we share a best friend, Michelle Orr. Our relationship, as best I can describe it, is one of rivals, strangers, and clones. Today I am shadowing her to try to separate the real Rachel from the identity thief I have created in my imagination.
> > >
> > > My first glimpse of Rachel is in the hallway of her school, Duke Ellington School for the Arts, before her first class. Michelle and I are standing by Michelle's locker, loading her backpack for the day. Rachel, a little ways down the hall from us, is jumping around in circles as she tries to put on a silver ballet flat without letting her foot touch the grimy floor. She waves to Michelle but does not say anything to me. I flash back to my telephone conversation with Michelle the night before.
> > >"She might try to lose you on purpose," said Michelle.
> > >"What?"
> > >"Oh, nothing," Michelle answered quickly. "I hope it all works out."
> > >
> > >By the end of AP English, Rachel's first class of the day, I am starting to think
> > >that maybe it won't work out. An hour into the day, Rachel has not so much as looked at me, even though I've been sitting next to her the whole time. When class lets out she nods at me curtly, then walks away with Michelle, leaving me to trail along behind.
> > > "Rachel, perk up," Michelle says. "Just think, after tonight we're done with the misery that is the senior repertoire." Rachel and Michelle are both drama majors at Ellington. They are putting on a show tonight that showcases what they have learned in their years of acting class.
> > > The thought of finishing the repertoire seems to mollify Rachel. To my immense relief, she actually acknowledges me for the first time all morning. The seniors in the show didn't get out of school until 10:00, she explains, and she's tired. She only got three hours of sleep last night.
> > > Rachel's next class is Anatomy. The teacher is absent, so the students sit at their desks and talk. Rachel and I compare our first impressions of Michelle as we wait for the substitute. I tell her about how I stopped talking to Michelle in seventh grade when I wasn't invited to her birthday party. Rachel says Michelle made fun of her and hurt Rachel's feelings on the first day of school, and they didn't speak for a month.
> > > The substitute arrives a few minutes into class and hands out a worksheet. A group forms to work on it, with Rachel in the middle.
> > > "I hate science," she says, labeling little pictures with the words metaphase or telophase or anaphase.
> > > "I hate this," someone affirms.
> > > The rest of the students seem to look to Rachel for answers, but she brushes off their obvious respect. "Don't take what I said," she says for one answer. "I don't really know what I'm talking about."
> > > The worksheet only takes about fifteen minutes, but the students have to stay at their desks until class is over. Rachel is worried that I'm bored. "Wait for rehearsal. That'll be the interesting part of the day," she promises. "I hate it when people are bored."
> > > We talk to pass the time, and as we talk the similarities between us build. Rachel was going to apply Early Action to Yale, as I did, though she didn't get her application in soon enough. When I admit to not liking math, Rachel agrees, "I feel that." Both of us read and write in our free time, but neither she nor I likes poetry. We share an aversion to Shakespeare. The election made her "very disappointed." "I was cussing so much that day," she says of November 3rd, the painful day after the election. I can sympathize, remembering ruefully how I refused to accept defeat even after Kerry had conceded.
> > > Yet among these familiar traits I begin to find things I can't relate to. Rachel knows what she wants to do with the rest of her life, counting "acting, filmmaking, writing, and producing" among her ambitions. She doesn't sleep very much, or socialize, because "there's not any time." Plays and rehearsals take up a phenomenal amount of her life, and her devotion to acting makes me feel lazy in comparison.
> > > Classes at Ellington are on a block schedule, so when we are finally let out of Anatomy it is time for lunch. Rachel and I meet Michelle at her locker and head out to the front steps of the school building, where we eat. Rachel has a croissant she bought that morning, and I have a peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich. Michelle didn't bring lunch, so she just watches us.
> > > The two of them decide that I just have to see a scene from the musical Gypsy that Michelle was playfully acting out a few days ago. Every time Michelle starts, though, she and Rachel collapse into giggles, and Michelle can't get past the first few words.
> > > "Why did I do it?" she says over and over again, in the short intervals when her laughter is controlled enough to be able to speak.
> > > "Wait, stop!" says Rachel, barely breathing with laughter. "This is why we can't be in acting class together. Center!" At the last word, the two of them breathe out deeply and get into a squatting position, a routine that I realize later is part of an acting warm-up. At the time I am mystified and very aware that I do not belong with them in their comfortable inside jokes.
> > > Rachel tries to imitate Michelle's act, but Michelle reprimands her with, "No! That's all wrong." They decide that maybe Michelle can't get it right because we're standing in the wrong doorway.
> > > A group of students is already sitting on the steps of the right doorway. Rachel says politely, "Excuse me, could you move for just a couple of minutes? We're having a performance." To my surprise, the students obediently pick up their lunch trays and walk away, reminding me that we are at an arts school. At Maret, the small, academically-oriented private school where I go, this kind of request would probably be laughed at. At Maret I would probably laugh at it.
> > > Even at the new doorway, every time Michelle flings her arms out and says, "Why did I do it?" she laughs so hard she can't continue. Eventually we give up and head inside. The arts classes at Ellington start after lunch, so it's almost time for "the interesting part of the day:" rehearsal for the senior repertoire.
> > > Michelle, Rachel, and I get to the auditorium at 12:30 exactly, the minute rehearsal is supposed to start. Five minutes later, the room is still empty except for a few of the other actors who have come early to practice their parts.
> > > "Didn't rehearsal start at 12:30?" I ask.
> > > "Nothing here ever starts on time," Rachel and Michelle answer in unison. I can't help but compare the disorganized nature of Ellington classes with the relative regimentation of life at Maret.
> > > Around 12:45 the director, a tall, bald, graceful black man named Mr. Johnson walks in. Michelle introduces me to him.
> > > "This is my friend," she says. Rachel, standing next to us, says defensively, "She's my friend, too!" I sit down in one of the seats that surround the stage, and rehearsal begins.
> > > The actors start out with warm-ups. They do squats, stretches, breathing exercises, voice exercises. Finally they get into their positions onstage and start the play.
> > > "We spend all our lives trying to do things they put people in asylums for," one actor begins. The rest follow with their own quotes. The scene ends with the Mr. Johnson saying, "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. The director has made his decisions for the callback list. And the numbers are." At this point, there should be a blackout, but the lights people aren't ready yet. Everyone just yells, "BLACKOUT." I am completely lost trying to understand the play's plot.
> > > Before long I realize that I am not the only one who is lost. The play is due to open in six hours, and it is still not finished. The actors and the Mr. Johnson throw out ideas and test them. They try the scene without the blackout, speed up the quotes, alter the director's words.
> > > "What's the rhythm? We need a rhythm," someone says.
> > > "This isn't going to work," says someone else.
> > > "Okay, let's do that again."
> > > The actors go back to their starting positions and the scene begins. Mr. Johnson interrupts. "Can you start over and do that again?" he asks the actor speaking. "Stay inside your character. You drop out too quickly."
> > > A striking Dominican girl named Yolanda is having particular trouble with her monologue. "I feel myself doing the same stuff over and over again," she says in frustration.
> > > "It's okay--just relax," says Mr. Johnson. Yolanda tries the lines again. "Okay, stop. Good, Yo, good."
> > > She starts from the top and messes up. "Can I start again?" The actors onstage all move backwards to their starting positions and Yolanda begins.
> > > Mr. Johnson still isn't satisfied. "Don't act between the lines," he tells her. "Use the lines to say, 'This is the most incredible moment of my life!'" Between each word he slaps his knees to emphasize his point.
> > > The scene starts again for what must be the eighth time. "You've got to hit this, Yolanda. You've got to hit it," Mr. Johnson says.
> > > Yolanda starts saying her lines and Mr. Johnson interrupts. "HIT it!" She barely pauses before continuing.
> > > "You've got to keep going, Yoli," says Mr. Johnson. "Just dive back in." Yolanda looks as though she might cry for a second before she pulls herself together and keeps going.
> > > Rachel is in the next scene. She walks onstage, carry two Starbucks coffee cups, but a few minutes into it Mr. Johnson calls a break.
> > >
> > > As soon as they step into the dressing room the actors start screaming. "I don't know what he wants me to do!" yells one girl.
> > > "He don't fucking know what he wants you to do!" Yolanda yells back.
> > > "You will be an out-of work director if you do that!" the girl continues.
> > > "Honey, that's why he's working at this school." Yolanda is sitting against a mirror, her legs sprawled out, almost crying. The other girl is crying, lying in the lap of a fellow actor.
> > > "I'm hungry," says Rachel from her perch on a makeup table. She seems barely to register the drama in front of her, and I get the impression that the histrionics I am witnessing are not infrequent.
> > > After awhile everyone calms down. People begin to notice me. Upon hearing about my project, a round, smiling girl named Brittney says that when she first saw me I reminded her of Rachel. Everyone teases her. I am tall; Rachel is average height. I am white; Rachel is black. Physically, we look nothing the same.
> > > "Let's tell stories about the beatings we got that we didn't deserve," says someone, perhaps wanting to keep people distracted from the show and maintain the relative calm that had settled in the dressing room. For the first time all day I remember that I am white and almost everyone else is black. In fact, I am the only white person in the room.
> > > My parents would never have dreamt of beating me. Rachel doesn't have any beating stories, but she is the only black girl without one. We spend the rest of the break watching dramatic re-enactments of childhood castigations which are funny and shocking at the same time.
> > > "God, we are so dramatic," says someone.
> > >
> > > Seven hours and as many meltdowns after rehearsal started, it is 7:30 and almost time to open the house. The actors are grouped together, holding hands, in the middle of the stage. They all listen to Mr. Johnson.
> > > "This is just another rehearsal, another opportunity," he tells them. They end with a cheer and break out of the huddle, clapping.
> > > The actors clear the stage, but it only gets more frantic. Ushers and stagehands run around and shout at each other.
> > > "Where am I supposed to be? Right there?"
> > > "Molly, this mic is going to be hot the whole show, right?"
> > > "Where are the reserved chairs?"
> > > "Spotlights, you should be out!"
> > > "Close the door! The house can't be open yet!"
> > > But in a few seconds the house does open, and the audience begins to filter in. People stake out seats in the bleachers, which have been set up right on the stage. The show is not sold out, but the crowd is respectable.
> > > The show starts around 7:50, twenty minutes behind schedule.
> > > "The only thing acting has done is pay for my psychoanalysis," it begins. A few people say their lines out of turn, or stutter, but I am amazed at the progress the actors have made from where they started that afternoon, and even undeservedly proud.
> > > Rachel comes onstage, dressed all in black except for her silver shoes. She begins her monologue.
> > > "You look so vacant," she yells at an invisible lover. "Don't you get it? Let's just let this die.No use sticking around." Someone whistles in amazement during a quiet moment, and among the applause at the end I hear a murmured "wow." Michelle's mom, sitting next to me, whispers, "She's going straight to Manhattan."
> > > I can't believe that the sad, furious woman I see onstage is the same girl I followed around all day. Certainly she hadn't just been stomping around and giggling at lunch, or studying the phases of mitosis in Anatomy.
> > > Suddenly I see a side of Rachel that I can't even begin to compare myself to. Suddenly the concept that she is anything like me--that I am anything like her--seems ridiculous.
> >
> >The other Rachel walks off the stage. I set down my notebook and pen, lean back in my seat, and watch.
> >
>

Wed, 08 Dec 2004 13:02:53 GMT

I totally fucked up.

Wed, 08 Dec 2004 04:45:45 GMT

I think I'm more than just a little stressed out. but for once, it's not like a, "omg I have so much to do and I'm so angry ARGH" stress, but rather a calm and cool . . . "I have things to finish," stress. tomorrow I absolutely have to put my University of Southern Cal. supplements in the mail express overnight, and because my teachers at school are all funky artists and not so good at keeping to deadlines, I have to go and pick up three recommendations from them that they all forgot to print for today. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed and hoping to God that they'll remember. This would not be so stressful if I hadn't been roped into participating in some stupid civics fair. But naturally a project that began as a class-wide thing boiled down to, "Rachel is going to the civics fair with a project on the district's subway system." I don't have the energy to get mad or hyper about it though. that takes way too much effort and energy. I have to stay up tonight working on all my applications, go to the fair tomorrow morning, then go to school and collect my materials . . . print what I must, leave school and go to the post office, send off stuff and then return to school. all before two, hopefully. Thursday will be crazy busy, and Friday I have my USC interview in Virginia at five o'clock (which my mother is still pissed off about, because she'll have to take the day off from work and she wasn't planning on it) and a ton of things due.

we'll not mention that Christmas is in roughly two weeks and I haven't begun shopping. nor do I have the money to, really. I may have to put people on hold and do "after Christmas presents" and send people things in January, though I'd feel really guilty. I always overstretch myself come December. I plan on spending $100 and end up spending $250 because I have little restraint and am incapable of not getting things for people. I am, however, a diagnosed shopaholic. I get some sort of sick . . . fetish-y kick out of purchasing things, methinks. and should be put away in St. Elizabeth's for it with that crazy man.

um. whew.
I'll do my best to remember to breathe.

the livejournal goat flashing spastically on the front page does not help me calm down.

my family makes me sad.

Mon, 06 Dec 2004 02:56:17 GMT

i wonder if it's too grand to want to "change the world."
and if it's not, whether "art" is a worthy way to do it. what else could I do? I don't know. heal people and be a doctor, but I can't handle blood and disease. become a lawyer or an advocate, but I'd be a bit of a tempest in a teapot. work for the government and try to change the way the system works . . . but no one would elect me. become a teacher? I haven't the patience.

someone told me once that "art" was not a real way to "change the world" -- whatever the hell that might mean. that artists were self-righteous and pretentious, egotistical . . . and for all their bullshitting about society and trying to change things, were really about nothing. I've heard that it's not possible to change the world. that statements like that are just grandiose overstatements of some intangible . . . nonexistent goal.

the more I think about it, I don't think there is any better device than through art to change something. a person, someone's mind, the heart . . . the world. because all art can really do at the end of the day is be a witness. it's simply another mode of exploration and discovery, and acts as a mirror being held up to society that screams at our face or whispers in our ear: "take a good look at yourself. do you like what you see?"

I asked Sav earlier today what writing meant to her. she asked me what acting meant to me. and in sort of rambling until I came to my answer, I think I began to understand why it was so imperative to my being to explore it.

acting . . . becoming . . . is such a perfect process in my mind, because it involves going into me and my mind and my experiences as rachel and simply tapping into that part of myself that naturally feels for and relates to someone else. and in doing so, becomes that person. I'm explaining badly. but learning technique after technique and studying Method and Meisner and Alexander and every damn thing you can pick up a book and read about . . . all those things are doing is attempting to strip away every piece of shit in our brains that blocks that truly natural part of us. techniques are taught so that we can strip away at all those things that develop over time . . . stopping up the passages to what's natural and right and true. I sit at school and learn Method so I can figure out how to stop thinking. because moments when you're doing something right and truthful and real . . . it's just not you.

it's ironic to me that I'm so sensitive and insecure, if all I attempt to do and want to do with my life is reveal the most vulnurable, raw, pink and cracked part of my soul.

it fascinates me that sometimes I'm complimented on being open and real here and not hiding, or protecting myself and my thoughts with a friendslock or a second private journal. not that there's anything wrong with that. I only spill all of myself and don't bother locking things . . . because isn't that my purpose? to sit and be as imperfect as I can possibly be so you can see every painfully wrong, bitter, and horrible thing about me?

I like that art is about vulnerability. and about how people hurt . . . because everybody, even the happiest of the happy, hurts. and I love that art happens on a "one moment at a time" basis. when it is right and truthful and honest and all the things art is supposed to be . . . it is so fucking real that it hurts . . . but it has so little to do with you. it happens and you're there, and you can't ever recreate that moment again. it happens so rarely it feels divinely inspired. and you barely remember it. and you can come close. so close. you can be amazing. I come close a lot. but I only got to that place where I was completely not me once. and -- being completely arrogant -- I'm a damn good actress, especially for someone my age. and those times I came close all I can remember are superficial things. that I felt freezing cold one time, and the tears on my face made me colder. or that I was hot and sweating though it had to be like forty degrees in the room, and I was screaming at someone, though I don't remember how I came to be screaming. and I couldn't breathe and I was squeezing the words out of my chest on no air, and I just remember thinking to myself "why doesn't she hear me?"

maybe my shoes are too big. and my pants are too big. and I've got stars in my eyes.
because I think it is possible to change the world. just maybe.
whether I can is another question.

i just pretend i'm a star.

Sun, 05 Dec 2004 14:24:47 GMT

this past week has been really rough for me. there's no real tangible reason. I can't point the finger to one or two people and shriek that they're upsetting me, I can't point to a bad grade or a man who stole my seat on the bus and pissed me off. but it's general frustration, I think. Ran suggested I might be going through a serious funk. she's quite right, I think. last night my mother and I were in Georgetown, and in the car I felt like crying, but I didn't. only because I would have to explain to her why I was upset. and I didn't feel like doing that.

I just suddenly feel like this incredibly dry . . . incredibly dull . . . incredibly boring person who also happens to be incredibly repetetive. I know the last, at least, is fact. I am extremely repetetive, and it rarely bothers me -- because I, frankly, usually don't encounter my usual . . . "repetetiveness." but looking at everything I've written . . . I feel like I've been saying the same things over and over recently, which is incredibly frustrating. I don't like feeling as though I'm the exact same bored person I was a week ago. I don't like to feel like no one is listening. I don't like to think I'm not saying anything worth listening to.

I can draw one thousand miniature portraits of myself. but they all look the same. it's nothing new.

that upsets me.

in addition to that, I think I'm in a number of unhealthy friendships. and I'm not sure if I'm strong or weak. I cannot possibly be weak, because I don't take shit from people. but if I don't take shit from people, how is it possible that I let the same handful of people walk all over me day after day, time after time and piss me off again and again? I have always been the doting good person people could count on to swoop in when they're feeling bad to make them feel better. I've always been the one who could will herself to isolate the good in a person's heart and praise the hell out of them until they feel better about themselves . . . but when it comes to me I automatically feel worse. the Christmas season always heightens this feeling, and I generally love this month.

I've come to some awful standstill where I can't say in any plainer way who I am and what I want to do with myself. there are only so many times I can say "Rachel Marie Douglas wants to be an actress, filmmaker, and wants to write." eventually I'm confronted with how. and I can sit around and will myself not to imagine little fabulous moments for the future I'm determined to create for myself for hours on end, but I'll continue to do it. I can get rid of this journal and get a new screen name and pretend to be someone else for a while, but I'm only going to turn out unhappy and frustrated, and I'll still be on the same soul search, only without a forum to do it aloud.

shit, man.

Fri, 03 Dec 2004 00:43:16 GMT

and people don't get why I'm fucking stressed out all the time. yesterday my mother fell in the hotel she's staying in during her business trip to florida, and now I have to break to my dad that I don't want to spend christmas day with him, I'd rather be with mom and then come up the day after. frankly, I'm over the divorce shit, or at least done with crying about it. for now. only occasionally nowadays. but this back and forth stuff . . . I am so insanely stressed about hurting either one's feelings . . . I don't know. school and sitting through the poetry workshop today with people randomly cheering at superficial and fake bullshit didn't help.

I have a headache.

copoffahana. sorry.

Thu, 02 Dec 2004 18:05:57 GMT

my america.

a while back I read on her journal an entry about how she was proud to be british. and about her england. and I enjoyed it, and sort of tucked it away because I wasn't quite sure to say to that as I am neither english, nor am I from england. it made me want to turn an eye on my own country, on my nationality and how I feel. and now I'll steal a page out of her book.

I think -- especially here online where I'd say the vast majority of people are "liberal" (and if I am typical new-england liberal in policy, I'm talking california's lifestyle liberal) -- it's generally seen sort of uncool to be "hey, I actually like america." like, being american is something you should be embarrassed about. or . . . it's okay for other people from other countries to love their country and chant its name or be enthusiastic or something, but it's tasteless if you're an american and you do that. you're stupid and fat and ignorant and . . . oblivious. or just completely naive. so naive that you don't realize you're not supposed to love this country, or even like it. and that's okay. you don't have to like this country. and all those things that are distinctly "american" (and some of the things that aren't) . . . well, you don't have to take along with you.

thing is . . . I really do. I love america, and I love being an american. and that makes me neither ignorant nor oblivious. because I have no pretenses about america's history and about america today. if anything, as a young person, as a woman, and as a member of the minority -- a black american -- I have even fewer pretenses. I know what america's done -- just like I know what all those other european nations have done -- and I know what america continues to do. I think, thank God, loving this country and liking being an american and being proud of my national just as I'm proud of all those other things that I am does not mean I have to like the administration or approve of my countrymen or anything like that.

I like that when I left this country and when I came back . . . and any time I'm going somewhere . . . on the subway, on the train . . . I think of jazz. I love that when I travel around this country and I leave one station and come into another terminal, I hear jazz. I love that I feel like jazz and the doors in and out of the country feel like jazz. I love that "so what" by miles davis reminds me of this country. because it's the most random, sweet, simple thing, and it just makes me laugh. I love that so many other random things make me think of this country and whether or not I cound find them someplace else, they feel american to me. like apple cider and lemonade. and plain, unglazed doughnuts and how they're almost this spicy kind of sweet. like, you're unsure whether or not you like it when you first taste it.

I love the east coast. and I like that even though this country is young, it's just old enough. so that I go up and down this coast and know I'm in the oldest part of this place and it's beautiful. I think washington dc is beautiful as is new york, depending upon where you are. I love that I can go from new england and it's long roads that go through the mountains and into the woods between towns down to the city and then catch the amtrack train to washington and be in the center of it all. I love that when I feel like it on days off, I wake up and go downtown, get off the bus in front of the white house and wander with some hot chocolate down to the washington monument and the national mall and just hang out and giggle at the tourists.

I like that I think americans are some of the friendliest people you can meet. which is not to say we can't be ass-holes, but then everyone can be an ass-hole. I like that random people who don't know each other here talk to each other anyway. and that there isn't the distance or the understood "you keep to yourself, I'll keep to me and we just won't bump each other" feeling I got in europe. and frankly, I like that we're loud. I think it's fun. I like that when I'm in american cities there's this energy and this vitality that I haven't found other places. a giggle and a grin and a shared sentiment between strangers that's kind of . . . "we're going, aren't we?" I love the west side. and I like midtown. and I like the subways here.

I like that we have all the seasons here, for the most part. and I like the variety. and I like that though we bitch, it gets nice and hot in the summer and cold and snow-y in the winter and crisp in the fall and breezy in the spring. I like those shared community experiences. I like block parties with kool aid and hamburgers, hot dogs and watermelon and corn on the cob. I like the 4th of july just because it's a big party. I like waking up saturday mornings after my mom has taken my brother to basketball, then going out to georgetown or somewhere in the afternoon and seeing all the little kids in their different colored sports uniforms or still in their tights and leotard from ballet, or whatever their little morning activity is. I like that you never see anyone over sixteen until three in the afternoon when we're beginning to wake up. and I like going to the multiplex just as much as I like art houses. I like seeing everyone with their popcorn and soda seeing the big action movie or whatever. not because I like the movie, but just because it's fun. and I like going to beach towns, because no one is mean there.

I like that we're showy. it's fun . . . that sparkle and shimmer and gloss. it's also nice to be an american and not a tourist from out of town or out of country and see beyond that. and I like that it doesn't make much effort to see beyond it if you just look. I also <3 that we don't have to be showy, and that if you look, you can find quality and substance.

and I like that people can hate hollywood and "the industry" but they still buy CDs and they still go to the movies and watch television, so nyeh.

I like thanksgiving because we all eat. and I don't care how fat the rest of the world thinks we are. the food is good. I like walking around NYC at night when all the crazy people come out to play and you could just people watch all night and laugh. I like seeing little kids getting into trouble. I like watching saturday night live instead of monty python (which -- forgive me -- reminds me that I don't think british comedy is better than american comedy, nor is it more sophsticated). and I like sesame street and cartoons, and I like those movies we all watch around holiday time.

it makes me laugh when people self-righteously hate this country. they certainly have their right to, but sometimes it's based upon nothing. or it's for the wrong reasons. or for illogical reasons. and I like liking america, because . . . well. it's jazz.

i like now no one will see this post. :D

because this'll only last so long.

Wed, 01 Dec 2004 23:07:14 GMT

recommend to me two or three friends to friend, and give me reasons why (if you can). I'll go friend them. and it'll be a random "livejournal friend week!" thing. and hopefully they won't think I'm insane. pick people who make you laugh, who move you, who are intense and personal or friendly and open. or all of the above. or none of the above.

<3

a serious plea, and pass on the word if you will.

Mon, 29 Nov 2004 17:13:46 GMT

this is directed to everyone and anyone.

does anyone know of any travel opportunities, study abroad programs available to high school students -- hopefully one that includes high school seniors -- that occur in the summer?

Sun, 28 Nov 2004 17:22:51 GMT

this journal sucked me up and spat me out. I poured every little thought I've ever had down in here, but now I feel like it's left me empty and with nothing to say. nothing to say that I haven't said before -- and what's the point of writing it for me? as an affirmation? I already know what I believe and feel.

I really want to rid myself of all those inhibitions and things that tell me, "rachel, don't post that, it's the same thing you said yesterday, and you sound like some egomaniac when you do." I want to be able to share those things I so fucking desperately want. to be able to sit in a coffee shop and study a script for a project I'm working on? to read play after play after play just to keep reading them and know that I'm not losing anything, that I gain with every samuel french publication I pick up? I want to make an independent film that takes place entirely on the metro in paris. I want to make an off-beat romantic comedy or love story and play someone no one ever thought I could. I want to make something different and new.

hell, I want to say something different and new, and I can't anymore. the problem isn't the thought. thoughts are there. I'm just too self-conscious and too people-conscious to feel like writing them down. and really, to what point and purpose do I speak if no one listens?

random fact. know what I'm beginning to enjoy? not having so much fear all the time. not being afraid that I'm no good and not having that doubt on my shoulders that weighs me down until I can't even breathe. it feels so good to slowly let that go. and feel more and more capable and less like some idiot with a dream. I don't think I ever believed I was just an idiot with a dream, but I can be hard. and it continues to be. but it's getting a little bit better, I think. and as I let go of that doubt and fear that I can and will accomplish something great because I'll die trying . . . I discover more and more of who I am and begin to understand me.

funny. a few people have told me that I overthink things. or overanalyze. or try too hard to understand. and question too much. and because I respect the people, I doubt I could ever say anything to contradict them. but it's rather antithetical to what I am and believe in and hope to be, isn't it? not questioning?

we're taught in acting class -- though it hardly takes a teacher to bring about this discovery -- that "acting" or . . . the opposite of that thing called "Acting" that we try desperately to avoid and shy away from . . . is really simple empathy. and an attempt to understand the human condition. so how is it possible that I should stop asking question after question to bring myself to a place where I really get exactly where in someone something is ticking, if all I'm trying to accomplish is understanding? and trying to imagine what life might be like it someone else's shoes?

I don't know. I'm ready to try something different and move on. something in some imaginary land is taking something away from me.

i would not bother sharing if it weren't so true.

Thu, 25 Nov 2004 15:56:54 GMT


james baldwin is love
brought to you by the isLove Generator

... proving that waiting and not wasting time with those other generators was worth it. because james baldwin really is love.

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 18:17:14 GMT

so the fact that I am materialistic and sort of vain -- though not at all intentionally -- is a known fact. I might as well not hide it. but feel free not to read on. I'm just really happy because I got my SAT II scores this morning and made a 710 on the writing.

before I begin understand that I have no pretenses about this list. but my mom said to put everything and anything I wanted on here, so I will. though I'd be happy if I got a cd, a dvd, and a book at this point (since it's highly unlikely my mother will somehow write me a harry/lisa fic for chistmas and design me a dozen icons).

oh, and yes, more before I go on. the past few years I've done presents for quite a few people on my flist, and I've sent cards, and all that. and then by the end of december, I've spent two hundred some odd dollars on everybody else. so this year I've decided to go low and try some other gifts.

View Poll: holiday time

laptop (yes. insane. but hear me out. mother and father promised one pre-college. may as well stick it on the christmas list.)
UGGs (never will be out of style, so long as my feet are warm), in Chestnut brown

Wicked Soundtrack
http://music.barnesandnoble.com/search/product.asp?userid=ba6ZsUNA0n&EAN=602498613436&ITM=1 !!

Turquoise Tote
http://www.oldnavy.com/asp/Product.asp?wdid=200501&wpid=265073

The Wiz Sountrack (film)
http://music.barnesandnoble.com/search/product.asp?userid=ba6ZsUNA0n&EAN=8811164928&ITM=2

Chappelle Show Season One DVD
http://music.barnesandnoble.com/search/product.asp?userid=ba6ZsUNA0n&EAN=8811164928&ITM=2

Fahrenheit 9/11DVD
http://video.barnesandnoble.com/search/product.asp?ean=43396086708&userid=ba6ZsUNA0n&frm=0&itm=1

Spiderman II DVD
http://video.barnesandnoble.com/search/product.asp?ean=43396051492&userid=ba6ZsUNA0n&frm=0&itm=1

Lux Stretch Twill Peplum Blazer
http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/shopping/product/detailmain.jsp?itemID=6073&itemType=PRODUCT&iProductID=6073

Vintage Disney Minnie Tee
http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/shopping/product/detailmain.jsp?itemID=4978&itemType=PRODUCT&iProductID=4978

Free People Destroyed Jeans
http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/shopping/product/detailmain.jsp?itemID=5630&itemType=PRODUCT&iProductID=5630

Bag
http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/shopping/product/detailmain.jsp?itemID=6054&itemType=PRODUCT&iMainCat=77&iSubCat=78&iProductID=6054

Eagle V-Neck Sweater
http://www.ae.com/AE_ProductPage.process?RestartFlow=t&Merchant_Id=1&Gender=Womens&Section_Id=780&Product_Id=8308044&CatalogFlag=FloorSet&Section_Title=SweatersandPonchos&ColorString=0344_4857_697
in coral

Butterflies in Bloom Necklace
http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/shopping/product/detailmain.jsp?itemID=5832&itemType=PRODUCT&iProductID=5832 !!

any colored flats (silver, gold, something other than black.)

Angels In America: A Play
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?userid=ba6ZsUNA0n&endeca=1&isbn=1559362316&itm=25

Closer: A Play
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?userid=ba6ZsUNA0n&endeca=1&isbn=0822217228&itm=61

Stila Lip Pot
http://www.sephora.com/browse/product.jhtml?id=P67500&shouldPaginate=true
in peach or rose

and a subscription to Elle magazine

umkay(!!).

Fri, 19 Nov 2004 17:09:23 GMT

Last night was the first of two performances of the Senior Repertoire. Prior to curtain, we hadn’t run through the entire show, we didn’t have cues, we didn’t really have anything together. But we got through it. And better yet, we rocked it. My pieces went well. And last minute I was pulled into Jamarais and Mary’s scene as a Starbucks attendant, and actually was funny – a rare treat. But what really made me ecstatic, what really just sent me off the hook, was what Mr. Johnson told my mother after the show:

“Rachel is such a perfectionist. I can’t even convince her that she’s good, she always thinks there’s more to be done. She’s got it, whatever it is. She has it naturally. It’s just in her genes.”

I believe a squee is in order. At least I can feel proud, and I’ll save my pissed-off ness for another day.

Thu, 18 Nov 2004 03:41:27 GMT

ife is really frustrating. so much so that I'm so indifferent I don't even feel like writing it here. I got pissed off during rehearsal today. we perform tomorrow and friday. I feel like I'm way behind on everything else. I did about fifty nice things for people in the last week and didn't receive a thank you. I kind of want to just be the brat that I secretly am. and I think I'm getting fatter.

edit: since I'll be around. I might as well.

the senior repetoire -- senior showcase for theatre students -- is happening tomorrow and friday. needless to say we aren't ready. and everyone pretty much pisses me off. I was lying down on the stage sleeping as mr. johnson was arguing with someone about something during tech today, and courtney thought we were close enough friends that she sat on me. I think she was joking around. it took most of my effort not to kill her. michelle says I give people the impression that we're immediately best friends. there's nothing wrong with thinking we're friends. but don't presume you can be all touchy feely with me. not when it's so obvious I'm in a bad effing mood. it's not that hard to guess.

everything -- really, everything was making me absolutely crazy. mr. johnson and ms. tracie getting all condescending "DO YOU KNOW HOW IT WILL BE TO BE AN ACTOR IN THE REAL WORLD?" and "YOU ARENT GOING TO MAKE IT BECAUSE YOU CANT SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DO THIS THING" and I just wanted to be like "well, we're teenagers, so fuck you and fuck this." jamairais nearly strangled me. and then scared me during a scene when she hit me on the ass. and I was fine with it "in characters, sure sure" but . . . it really, really hurt. physically. backstage Samira -- little skinny Samira -- was standing in the mirror talking about how fat she was. I HATE it when people do that. I really do. because I, 5'8" and definately no model, am then a heffer in comparison. and I just couldn't handle feeling fat and ugly at that moment. I already felt like a horribly untalented actress thanks to mr. johnson's little bullshit. I didn't need anything else.

I am pissed about the ms. katz thing. of course, no one knows what that is and I don't feel like talking about it. I don't want to wake up and go to anatomy. I hate science. I don't know how to put it any plainer. and if another person expects me to be nice when I don't feel like it, they will certainly get more of an earful than they probably deserve.

and I have no money to buy myself a present or do something nice for myself with. so that sucks.

Tue, 16 Nov 2004 05:11:23 GMT

I am in a foul mood.

Mon, 15 Nov 2004 18:45:02 GMT

I have nothing of substance to post today. So everyone go look here, supasekritsanta, join, and participate. because . . . well, why not.

because it feels great to swallow your vomit before school.

Mon, 15 Nov 2004 12:14:43 GMT

Ol Dirty Bastard died yesterday. And this is apparently what they choose to post on yahoo. They being users. And on yahoo being the message board. Just have a looksie.

"Bottom line, blacks are poorer, less..
by: lipsisamanbaby 11/14/04 03:50 pm
Msg: 7569 of 8223
2 recommendations

intelligent, more violent, more of a drain on social services, and an all around cancer to society. I believe in forced sterlization of all blacks living below the poverty line, since they do precious little to try and rise above it."

"A logical reason 2 exterminate niggars
by: awbizzatch 11/14/04 01:15 pm
Msg: 7437 of 8223
17 recommendations

1) they are a disproportionate drain on welfare and social systems. That is, a "society" that makes up 14 percent of america, has an overwhelming proportion of its members on some kind of social assistance.
2) Most live like animals, with fully 90 percent of the "new arrivals" or "niglets" being born out of wedlock, and the father refusing to provide for it..and who can blame him, since he is rarely sure if it is his, it is no surprise that they are a drain on social systems.
3) Niggars commit 85 percent of all violent crime in america. 70 percent of that crime, contrary to what many believe, is not black on black crime, but black on white crime.
4) niggars have not reached the evolutionary scale of the white man, in fact, calling them human is a stretch. The average black's IQ is 87, whereas the average white mans is 130.
5)The animals thrive in packs and produce" alphas: like theser rappers that encourage violence and threaten a naturally harmonious society.
6) Many of them are caged and incarcirated anyway. The aspca keeps its animals for a month, hoping for a family to adopt. When the financial strain of their upkeep becomes too large, the animals are systematically eliminated. I ask my fellow white man, why should niggars enjoy more than what a golden shepard might? Surely, the golden shepard is less likely to betray the hand that feeds it.

I hope my arguements have made sense to a few white people out there..and that we can shake off the shackles of love happy liberal media and recognize the niggars for what they are. animals. "

"a black ho let me pizz on her for crack
by: awbizzatch 11/14/04 04:17 pm
Msg: 7595 of 8223
2 recommendations

Funniest thing I ever done. My friends and I went to Twillos back in the day and some crack head toothless ho bag came up to me askin for money. I said i would give her 20 bucks for crack if she got on her knees opened her mouth and let me piss on her, while callin me "massa sir". She did...LMAO we were on the floor. You proud proud nubian princess...lmao spear chuckers are all the same. "

Thanks.

Sun, 14 Nov 2004 21:39:32 GMT

I call people lady to let them know that I love them.

magazine meme number ... 11? for mary. <3 one of my best friends.

Sun, 14 Nov 2004 19:21:04 GMT

I have a hard time placing Mary Becica's age. The young woman -- tall and thin, stunning like a model, but with small-town, girl next door appeal -- claims to be twenty-eight. She doesn't look a day out of undergraduate school. Her personality skews her age; she is a number of dynamic opposites combined, each suggesting a different age. She is loud and spirited, and has a laugh that reminds me of my high school days. She is friendly and casual, but skips the pleasantries and small-talk. Encountering someone so candid and blunt is refreshing. On the same hand, she seems to weigh her words carefully and has the sophistication and finesse of an experienced business woman, well over thirty and quite used to making sure interviews and conversations play out the way she wants them to. There are moments in our conversation I'm inclined to call her "Miss Becica." There are others when I want to break out into a fit of giggles and simply call her "Mary." She, apparently, prefers the latter.

For someone so young -- twenty-eight, in architecture talk, is still a baby . . . most greats create their masterpieces at sixty and upward -- she has already accomplished so much.

We're seated in a restaurant, Azlo, only two and a half blocks over from her newest work, which is still being built and won't open for another seventeen days. Our table is in the darkened back corner, near the bar and far from the kitchen. Music plays over the loudspeakers, and the trendy main-dining room glows a burnt orange, accented by the voices of twenty-different conversations. The University of Virginia educated architectural artist is dressed preppy-casual (and simeltaneously chic) in black heels she bought recently from a flea market, cream-colored wide leg Marc Jacobs trousers that make her look even taller, a simple black top and jacket. Her wrists are decorated in tasteful silver jewlery -- consignment -- and her brown hair is twisted into a simple bun. She epitomizes youthful elegance, which is tempered by the inviting grin on her face.

Mary doesn't take herself too seriously. "You can't," she explains as we pick at appetizers and chat like long-time friends. "You can't walk into a room and announce 'I designed this and </i>that</i> and am critically acclaimed and that wonderful.'" She bats her eyelashes and ends with a flourish before bursting out into laughter, as though the very mental image of such is enough to make her gag. "Not everyone cares. And I'd rather not go into a place I designed and have everyone know I did it so that I could get needless praise. I'm not looking for it."

Though she may not be looking for it, she gets quite a bit. Her career began early on designing luxury apartments and homes in Philadelphia, near her hometown of Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Her jobs were small and didn't pay much early on, but on a stroke of luck she skyrocketed up the architecture ladder by -- much to her surprise -- being commissioned to design a new wing to be added to the expanding Museum of Modern Art, a six minute walk from here.

She submitted her design, as did seasoned architects. Mary was almost certain hers wouldn't be chosen; she briefly considered not bothering to submit. "One of my friends talked me into it. Because, quite frankly, I was hitting a low-point. I felt like I wasn't making any progress. I was already considering trying my hand at something else, it's hard to get bigger and better jobs and commissions when you're younger."

A grin appears on her face briefly, but when I ask her what she's thinking about, she shakes her head and waves a dismissive hand. "Nothing."

When dinner arrives, the interview becomes even more casual. I'm fooled. Mary treats me like a close personal friend, and we've only known each other for an hour or so. Once again, her age fluctuates. No longer do I feel as though I'm seated across from a wise thirty-something with practical concerns about work and doubt about her ability to move up a few rungs in her given profession. Suddenly we're both twenty-one again, laughing about the last movie she saw -- last night with her good friend, actress and filmmaker Rachel Marie Douglas -- discussing literature and whether she prefers Russian classics or more contemporary writers (sidebar, when she was seveteen she forced herself to read Leo Tolstoy in one month, a challenge most forty and fifty year olds haven't taken on), her desire to dance again . . . though she lacks the time. Her status as a very available single.

After our meal, we walk the darkened Upper East Side sidewalks toward the museum. The wing she designed is coming along quickly, most of the remaining work is interior, the outside fools the eye for the most part. We stand on the opposite block -- there is a gate surrounding it, afterall, and Mary only half-heartedly suggests jumping it. Mary is already deep into her next project, redesigning the Guggenheim Museum, also in New York, before she goes out to San Fransisco for a long stay to erect a number of new galleries in the theatre district out there. As we part, I can place exactly what she reminds me of.

Mary seems far more like a fledgeling movie producer or studio executive, but without the naïveté. And I'm certain that will work to her advantage.

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 22:39:45 GMT

a famous actor came to my school a few days ago and spoke to us. and he said something that really moved me, so I scribbled it down.

"this is where we do the undoable and say the unsayable . . . this is where we do the darkest and the brightest and the stupidest and the most imaginative and the most fantastic."

get this.

there is a lot to love and obsess over and cry over in this world. and there is nothing more terrible and frustrating than having something you want to go after and desperately want to come true just so you can have it and say "oh, fuck yes, man" and laugh wildly while tears and streaming out of your eyes and down your cheeks. there might only be a few things that make you crazy emotional . . . so much so that you don't know what to do with yourself and you feel like you just might legally qualify as "insane" . . . only a few things in your life that make you . . . really start to feel something. because what we do here on livejournal and elsewhere is very nice. we play games, and we sing songs and doodle and go back and forth about things of little significance and sometimes on things of serious substance and try to fake life, and recount those moments when we really thought we were living . . . .

none of this, none of what I'm doing right now in my life, is really living. going through the motions and existing and having relationships -- some of which are simply mandatory, and that's the only reason I go on with them -- just being . . . doesn't qualify as really living.

I want to live. not play at life.

I would rather wake up laughing every morning and cry every night and put the same sentence here every day if I really meant it rather than make some attempt to feign what I think life is or should be about. and I'd rather be perceived as some sort of "forced artistic chick" who is so desperate to feel like she's doing something than waste my time with stupid, trivial things. though we need them to keep us same.

yeah, I definately want to live. and that means isolating and just loving those things where are just that dear to me.

have you ever seen a wonderful piece of art that changed you? or read something -- published literature, a classic, some sort of revolutionary poetry . . . hell, a piece of fanfiction, that made you smile? not a half-hearted "oh, that was cute" smile. but a genuine "I can't explain to you *why* I'm smiling, but goddamnit, I'm doing it" grin? or ever heard a piece of music . . . hip-hop, christina aguilera, nickleback, some old 80s rock song, motown or the beatles, rhapsody on a theme by paganini or bach or satchmo . . . and feel something choking you up and then have nothing to say when it's overward (because there was nothing to say), but you go out and buy it and listen to it no less than forty-seven times in the same night until you start singing the notes aloud just because?

if you're me . . . have you sat in an empty movie theater and cried through the credits and have no words?

you'll laugh, probably, if I tell you this. because it -- more than likely -- officially qualifies me as a geek.

the last film I saw when I was really moved -- actually, second to last (because Ray moved me, but . . . for a different reason, which doesn't make for a good example) film I saw that changed me . . . I was in a crowded movie theater in bethesda (which is a place that sucks beyond belief, not because it's not nice, but because the people are horrible) squished between this annoying girl who kept having to go to the bathroom, and michelle. and though michelle didn't bother me, in front of us were these two middle aged "tall" people who just kept looking at me like I was going to try to jump 'em. the theater was crowded and we arrived late, so we sat in the third row, I think. and though michelle speaks spanish and had no trouble, I had to struggle to read the subtitles (which eventually got easier, and sometimes I just said "fuck the words" and watched) and see the picture on the huge screen at the same time. I got swindled out of four bucks earlier when we were buying snacks (happens EVERY time I go to see a film), and midway through the movie I had to go to the bathroom but didn't want to miss a thing.

it took an hour for me to process it. I didn't walk out of the theater bawling and sobbing and shouting "IT"S JUST SO BEAUTIFUL" like some maudlin, melodramatic twit. but once I'd gotten home and could take a moment to breathe by myself, it just . . . hit me. like a hundred pound sack of sand. and for the following two hours, I couldn't stand, I couldn't sit, I couldn't be still . . . I would sit down and write -- and I was talking to a few people at the same time, one of whom I got into a fight with -- and then jump up and pace and probably seemed genuinely off my rocker. and I was smiling and laughing and the tears were rolling right off my face, I'm certain I was at my most unattractive. I made a post that only a few people looked at. I went to bed and couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about it and how the puddles shine and how things make me happy.

the first film that ever made me like that . . . I saw in the summer only a couple of years ago. I was absolutely alone in the theater, it had been a spur of the moment thing, school had only let out a week before, and I was getting ready to go away on some sort of summer program. my mom was at work, brother and sister were at camp . . . so I went into friendship heights and bought a ticket to a movie (that turned out only to be semigood, but that doesn't matter) and sat in the theater alone with my little bag of popcorn and an ICEE and my feet propped up on the chair in front of me . . . . and I remember feeling so excited as the previews started.

and come credits I was sitting back in my chair not amazed at the movie, but amazed at this growing notion deep in me that said " . . . I can do that" in a blunt and stead, unaffected voice.

where does living fit into all that?
you tell me.

and sidebar. when it's real and it's right and you know it . . . you don't need it. the approval. the anything. you just know.

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 17:56:32 GMT

a friend asked me to make a choice. whether I'd prefer to live without any aspirations and thus have the luxury of not caring and not worrying and just being indifferent towards whatever may happen . . . but be without anything to dedicate my life to, or whether I'd rather to have goals and things to work toward, but in the end fail anyway and be heart-broken.

as if there's doubt to which I chose.

I think her question was sincere. and maybe what she doesn't get is that . . . having dreams isn't entirely about the end. I mean, it is, the goal is the end point, it's what you're working to get at. but you have to love what you have to do to get there just as much. or love the process of going, even if it means doing and having to experience unpleasant things. she doesn't get that . . . most of my happiness is dreaming. or my dreams are happiness for me. I love them or love having them just as (or more than) I love going out with friends and walking around washington and accomplishing nothing, just as much as I love finishing a good story, or sitting in a film and watching a moving film and crying while the credits role. or crying when I get home.

and believe me, there's not much I love more than that.

there aren't many happier moments for me than sitting at home on a week day when I have school off and everyone else is gone, the house is empty, and I'm in the computer room. and it's either a fall or a spring day, but it's cool outside, so I have to wrap up in my own house. national public radio playing in the kitchen. the television on in the porch. and I get to just sit there and listen to vince guaraldi on my ipod and open a wordpad document and not really know what to write for fear of writing the same thing over and over, but being just as happy and pleased with myself. wishing that I could go to bed and six years or so could pass.

which would I choose? a life without dreams and pleasant apathy? or a lot of work and ultimate failure and tears and a broken spirit?