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(no subject) [Mar. 20th, 2007|08:17 am]
[music |hummm]

i  moved out
i live in a crazy house

mostly i just like grocery shopping and doing whatever i want.

whenever i want.
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(no subject) [Mar. 5th, 2007|09:18 am]
[music |classroom noises- media arts]

so i may very well be moving out.
i'm going to see the room tonight.

fingers crossed.
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(no subject) [Jan. 14th, 2007|06:48 pm]
[music |tom waits- cemetery polka]

tom waits- cemetery polka.

i'm sure there are LOTS of pretty girls in france.

i want tea.

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(no subject) [Jan. 14th, 2007|06:48 pm]
[music |tom waits- cemetery olka]

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tom wiats- cemetery polka.
i'm sure there are LOTS of pretty girls in france.

i want tea.

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(no subject) [Dec. 30th, 2006|02:01 am]

things have been very full lately. 
sad, happy, drunk, stoned, hallucinating, confused, tired, awake, sleeping, cramped, itchy.
my friends are hurting, and i love them too much to see them hurt. 
i want to break some people's teeth. let's leave it at that. 
i think they know how much i really care, even though i'm too much of a space case to really look like i'm paying attention.

you know?

drunk at mauri's house last night. it was fun.
40s of colt 45 are my new boyfriend.
as for new years at nina's, it should be interesting. she's really trying to keep it small, because she dosen't want drama up to the ears.
i don't like seeing her stressed, and me being coked up, i'm probably going to bitch out anyone who pisses her off.  
pepople should just be respectful.
get trashed and have fun, holy shit, is it really that complicated?
i hope the night goes well, for all of our sakes. 
and if you know anyone who invited themself, please tell them it's not gonna fly.
i'm just worried for a good fried, that's all.

spread the word please.

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(no subject) [Dec. 18th, 2006|08:48 pm]
[mood |blank:1]
[music |kettle]

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats        5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …        10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,        15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,        20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;        25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;        30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go        35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—        40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare        45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,        50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—        55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?        60
  And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress        65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets        70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!        75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?        80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,        85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,        90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—        95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
  That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,        100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:        105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”
      .      .      .      .      .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,        115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …        120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.        125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown        130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

i love you norton anthology of poetry.
i love you ts elliott
i love you the love song of j alfred prufrock

i hate you school.

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(no subject) [Dec. 13th, 2006|12:03 am]
[mood |blank:2]
[music |thumpathumpathumpa]

"flip flang the beurr ang gulang"

that's about it really.
i feel like a crazy person

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(no subject) [Oct. 25th, 2006|12:59 am]
[mood |blank:3]
[music |joanna newsom]

tim told me he got amy alice thompson to come and give us the art talk.
i'm happy

otherwise, studies in lit stinks becasue i have a  shit load of work to do, and i'm NOT doing it tonight, becuase i am lazy and a ragamuffin.
oh, tea

otherwise things are good, half day on thursday, maybe i'll get some work done and not get drunk?
who am i kidding.

i made three pots in ceramics today, my squishy tube ones.
i'm gonna engobe some facelines or something. but the clear glaze sucks. :2
things are working out artfully this year.

 i'm still gonna be a librarian though.
poo poo on illustration

or bfa.

don't ask me i'm crazy.

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(no subject) [Oct. 19th, 2006|07:00 pm]
[mood |blankow my fucking throat?]
[music |kettle boiling]

it hurts to SWALLOW
i hate this.

i have strepp throat and i want to complain.
i haven't had a cigarette in three days, because it hurts to smoke, and i'm too much of a pansy to tough it out.
and i fucking hate  portfolio class, i have an interview with tim tomorrow morning at 7:50, and if i go i'm gonna be like " well actually, i don't even know what university is, and i chave no idea what you're talking about when you say prerequisites, or required pieces for that matter, i'm just gonna be a librarian for now i think." and then doze off and start mumbling about the crumpets or something pastry like that. 


anyways, if i can get everybody who reads this to visualize me getting better, and managing to go to work on friday night, and partying on saturday night, maybe it will actually happen?

i just feel shitty and behind kind of.

love you

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(no subject) [Oct. 16th, 2006|10:48 pm]
[music |the hustle]

do the hustle
doodoo doo doodoodoodoo doodoo
doodoo doo doodoodoodoo doodoo

cocaine=1970s=the hustle
therefore, cocaine=the hustle.

point proven.
i love you.

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