Fast Car

I was recently reminded of an old song. Thanks, Tracy Chapman, you're more than brilliant.

So i'll dance and be your sunflower
in mid winter and smile at you
as you watch me with those pretty eyes,
those pretty lies.
And later i'll meet you for a drink
and we'll sit and talk philosophy
to avoid the space between us.
And i'll tell you where i've been
and what i've become-
and you'll laugh and then
we'll become quiet,
as all lovers do.
And i'll intertwine our fingers,
my tiny palm in
your rough hands,
and we'll say we'll love forever
right on cue,
but we were always
the actors that never
quite fit the part,
always missing the margins
by a fraction,
chasing something that
didn't belong.
It's all for the ride,
don't you want to be someone?
but i dont know if i believe you-
no, I don't know if i believe me.
I remember
driving in your car,
speeding down the freeway
and closing my eyes
as if trust would suddenly fail me,
but it hasn't yet,
 I'm only a child.
What does hurt feel like?
And i remember
those nights I'd write poetry
in the dark-
because there was always more to say
when i couldn't see myself.
And I'd hide behind the language,
it was all too sophisticated,
we were all too planned.
And I won't know how to tell you that I
used to want to buy a big house and live in the suburbs,
and I used to want to go to the beach on the weekends
and find love in paradise.
But now I'll take a ticket to anywhere,
I'll unbuckle my seatbelt,
run my finger down the map,
down your spine.
Don't look back,
cross the freeway.
And you'll whisper,
Don't you want to belong?
And I do,
I always have,
so we'll keep on driving.

Ordinary Words

I've pretty much had no work for the longest time, yet every night this week I've been up late. I'm not even sure what I do with my time. Certainly, it's nothing of much significance. I must admit though, this semester has been pretty stress-free. Partly because I really do love my professors and I have an awesome schedule. Monday-Thursday, 11:00 to 1:45, and that's it!The earliest I wake up on a weekday is 10:15. I'm hardly ever in class, and my weekends last forever. It's positively wonderful.
Today my culture foundations professor assigned our first paper topics, and I'm so relived.  I was thinking analytical writing, research, a lot of time spent in bobst, and a heavy discussion of difficult epics that I didn't read. But instead, I have options like... a photo essay taking pictures of gothic and romanesque architecture in New York City compared to modern structures that have gothic elements. Or, a discussion of Dante's hell juxtaposed with a creative description of how I would design hell. Needless to say, I was pretty happy.
 Economics is getting slightly challenging though. It's not hard, per-say, but I just need to take the time to really study the text book and understand the graphs.  I can't let myself get behind because I'll need to have an understanding of the basic analytical principles to move forward. But, it's hard to sit and stare at the graphs and try to make sense of them on my own. I get frustrated. It's a lot easier when someone explains it to me and makes it interactive. I don't know why I have trouble understanding graphs, but I do. They're not even that difficult.  My professor is a sweetheart, and I swear I get it when she explains it, but then she moves on quickly to another topic and I forget what she's just taught. I used to have the same problem with math. This weekend I  need to dedicate sometime to Krugman and his corny textbook examples and explanations because I have some catching up to do.  Side note: I've come to the realization that economics is all psychology and the entire subject is predicting what people will do with their money.
My social foundation professor intimidates me. I'm not really sure why, but he does. He's the young, Williamsburg hippster professor with gelled curly hair and probably grades essays while he's high. His jeans are too tight and his chest hair sprawls out of his shirts. He stands leaning slightly to the left, and stares at the class looking for answers like "What is truth?". He gets really philosophical really fast, and sometimes I feel like my brain wants to combust when I'm sitting in his class. But, I guess he's an interesting teacher and medieval political theory and religion is good stuff. I mean, it is good stuff. I really do love the subject. After all, I am a political science major.
Writing is writing. I don't participate as much this semester, but my professor still loves me. I have to finish writing a pretty long paper this weekend. It'll get done. It always does.
Tomorrow I have to go to NYU's all university games. Basically, the different schools of the university verse each other in sporting events. I'm not participating in any events, but I have to be there for student council. Unfortunately, I volunteered myself to bring the free t-shirts that we're giving out over to the gym, so I have to lug this huge box of shirts five or six blocks up. I don't really know what I'm going to do. I tried to bring the box across the park the last night and had to stop and take a break three times. Not to mention, I woke up with my arms sore. And, I have to wait with the shirts for an hour until everyone else gets to the gym. I hate how unorganized we are sometimes.
But, in other news, I'm going on a date tomorrow. It's been a while. I don't often date boys, just kiss them. That sounds perfectly awful, let me rephrase: It's not that I don't want to date boys, I just haven't found the right boys to date. But, I'm excited about tomorrow. It should be fun. It's casual.

Now that I've ranted for the past half an hour, I feel satisfied and sleepy enough to go to bed. Tomorrow will be busy, but the weekend is only hours away...

You and Your Pretty Eyes

Sometimes I wish this was a diary.

Animals

You're yelling at me,

"write something, 

anything"

But I have nothing to say.

I'm trying. 

So I'll tell you about the time I bungee-jumped off a bridge in the Amazon, or the day I realized I'm too afraid to drive a car.

But even the most entertaining of anecdotes don't know how to fill this void, or rather, this heavy cement  block.

And even the few words I have bring me to a dead end. Thought cuts you off when you least expect it. 

"Writer's Block is for the Weak" used to be a motto of mine when I thought I was invincible with a pencil.

And then one day I had nothing left to say so I threw out that motto and wrote a new one.

"Do it for the Readers" I scribbled into my notebook, and then when I realized that the only readers I had were my friends, [and only because I asked them to] I decided I needed a change.

"Do it for Yourself," was my inspirational line. But nobody likes cliches, especially me. 

Then I finally asked myself, do I need a motto to legitimize what I do? 

So I threw out the notebook all together. 

The day I realized I would probably never be writing for a profession led me to wonder why I often stay up all night laboriously hacking away on Microsoft Word.

And I can't help but ask, does everything you do have to relate to your professional goals?

Should I be sleeping right now in order to stay awake in class in order get good grades in order to graduate with honors and receive a high paying job?

Am I looking for an end result with this?

Is everything we do about a final product?

In order to avoid questions that make my head spin I've come up with a simple conclusion:

This is a need.

And we are humans,

We fulfill our needs.

Pinch me, I Must be Dreaming

you know when you have those awesome weeks and you ask yourself, "is this real life?"

last night my roommate and i decided to have a dance party at midnight, [some old school brittany spears] apparently we could be heard through the walls, but i don't care. we had so. much. fun. [it's like we were 9 again]
today i was accepted to a summer internship program at the museum of natural history. (spending a summer with the dinosaurs has got to be an experience of a life time)
tomorrow night i'm going to one of the nicest restaurants in all of new york, (it's restaurant week!),  called Le Cirque, a $125/person french restaurant for only $35 dollars. it's a steal. a 3 course meal. [we're getting our heels on for this one]
i'm then proceeding try a new bar with some friends that goes by the name Kettle, where my friend lauren is a frequent.
friday will be a work day, but at night i'm off to see a movie i would never pay to go see, but my friend just happened to win two free tickets...[no strings attached]
saturday, the mother and aunt are coming in and have extra tickets to a show, the importance of being earnest. I'm going, why not?
sunday, well, sunday is sunday. chapter. more work. but  the superbowl is on. I guess that'll be interesting, something has to be going on somewhere.
the only thing tainting my weekend is the massive amount of work that must get done. especially economics. 

but, all in all, i love my life, i really do. 

Statues

The follow creative writing prompt was given to me today: you will be given three words and you will start your piece with these three words and write for three minutes. Then you will be given three more words and you will continue to write for another three minutes....this went on for about twenty minutes. Everyone in the room started to write rapidly, as if the world would end if they didn't.

The following piece of work is...
(raw, complicated, unedited, naked, wordy and awkward)
but i guess that's what writing is about..
playing around with ugly sentences until they feel beautiful.


Statues suffer like ruins,
age hanging off
their cool, supple limbs.
I yearn to touch him,
awaken him from his slumber.
But i realize that I am alone. Powerless.
Ruin me.

I trace my finger on your arm, frozen.
Your eyes, the black marbles, cool.
They stare at me,
not lifting their gaze as I stare up at
you in bewilderment. [where did you go?]
Marbles facing marbles,
eyes facing eyes.

The darkness of coffins has a way
of silencing a young girl.
I learned this long ago when
I was not afraid to stare at
things i knew would disappear.
I am afraid of death,
and other things I cannot touch.
Touch me.

It was your glass of water that crashed on the ground
and evaporated into something terrible.
I guess it was then that i knew we were beginning to fall
in all the wrong ways,
love in all the right ways.

I awoke to find you trapped,
a statue at the Louvre,
so beautiful and valiant,
so alone.
I began to cry because I had nothing
left to give you.
I squeeze you as if you could feel me.