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practice makes more perfect and back again and back again
there is a hummingbird on my back
and she's trying to sing
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.
vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
merry christmas.

rachel marie.
6 bohemian-luxe lost in thought // vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
Poll #406927 one of these things first

...as many as you like.

1 bohemian-luxe lost in thought // vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
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.

mood: blank blank

vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
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.

Journalism article and project on Rachel DouglasCollapse )

mood: blank blank

8 bohemian-luxe lost in thought // vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
I totally fucked up.

mood: crushed crushed

11 bohemian-luxe lost in thought // vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
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.

mood: rushed ...
music: Louis Armstrong

4 bohemian-luxe lost in thought // vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
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.

mood: restless ...
music: Jon Brion-Elephant Parade

vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
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.

mood: melancholy melancholy
music: Jon Brion-Peer Pressure

vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights
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.

mood: gloomy ...
music: Kevin Shields-Goodbye

vintage tangerine dreams of white paparazzi lights