square frames

I put on my new dress and it made me lonely.

My suitemates are at Rocky Horror. Really, I don't care about the show -- I love it, I've seen it a thousand times, game over.

Sometimes I get so tired of being attracted to everyone.

glamorous

I am looking through the pictures of a friend who is spending her fall in Paris. She's talented and lovely and free and her pictures reflect all of those things. I have an aesthetic crush on the angle she captures things at. Her use of perspective turns me on.

And I am still left wondering, what happened to Paris? Where has my light little traveling heart gone, anyway? I don't want to look back on my time and Charlottesville and feel like I was just biding that time, waiting around until something came along. The days when I get to the barn and the air is so cold that we ride our horses up the stream and across the field to the barn instead of leading them, risking slippery backs for their warmth, is that biding my time? Hours and hours of being in the dojo, flying on the same techniques endless times, bare feet sliding across wood floors, what does that amount to?

I have no answers, but in other news, I DO have official advice/permission to take a less fucking demanding class load next semester. Thank goodness, maybe I can start riding a majority of days out of the week now.

listening to: Cursive
reading: my Western Civ paper

sun flower

Stop haunting me, for the sake of everything.

You've changed almost beyond recognition. I've changed in the same direction I've always been changing (tame and away from danger).

And yet, and yet. I can't get the lines of you, silhouetted against dark curtains, out of my mind. Your hair is just as bright, that shining river of honey strawberry yellow-red that crashed through everyone you stood too near. You were forever standing too close to me, watching my pulse twitch.

I love the newness and the sanity of you, but at the same time, I can't let that gorgeously messed past you've got quite go.

miscellany

Still sick, more updates forthcoming.

I should be reading Noble but hey, I'm not. It's boring and I'm going to go help paint Beta Bridge in 20 minutes, I guess.

Also, Feministing.com isn't loading and that is upsetting.

Class signup is tomorrow. Whooooos not ready. Oh right that would be me.

I need more friends.

listening to: Umbrella // Rhianna feat. Jay-Z
reading: Les Liaisons Dangereuses // Pierre Choderlos de Laclos

i have gone marking your body with crosses of fire

It is still hard to translate from my head to the blank white "update blog" screen, I think.

In other news, tomorrow is Caturday. Don't laugh at me, I will tell my horse to bite you. I am sad because I am sick and I can't go to karate tonight so I am sitting here not knowing what to do.

Today was a little sad when my Classics professor expressed her doubt that any of us read poetry. I've always read poetry -- maybe not classical love poetry, until now, but give me a break; it's hard to get through if you haven't been familiarized with all those references already. But I've done Keats and both Shelleys, Blake and Marlowe and Marvell and all those other silly dead white men I had to read in high school.

And by myself I fell in love (back in those days when I thought love grew from nothingness and lasted forever) with Shakespeare's sonnets -- I have a complete book of them, each carefully scanned and annotated in my twelve-year-old handwriting. Pablo Neruda still makes me cry and one day I want to read him in the original Spanish because I *know* I am missing things. I spent a week translating T. S. Eliot's French poetry but I still love The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock like none other. I have Emily Dickinson, Alice Walker, Anne Sexton, Elizabeth Bishop sitting on the shelf for the times when I need to listen to things that intelligent women have to say. I still look for James Wright's "A Blessing" every time I go to a bookstore, and I can't read Ezra Pound without wishing for the days when A. and I wrote so freely and so together.

I reject a world that lives without poetry. I fantasize about joining the Renegade Poet Society, those masterful night poem-chalkers who use e. e. cummings and Rainer Marie Rilke to vandalize construction walls. And most densely of all, I know those swaying, rhythmic poems that bring us to the sacred, those studied poems that are prayers. Those catholic ones that are milennia old and transliterated directly, those pagan ones that make us divine with ecstasy, ecstatic with the divine.

Last but, naturally, not least, I am always writing poetry. I am pulling metaphor from thin air and spinning nothingness into somethingness and back into infinity again. I am recording that which is in the past (the smell of blood, deeper than roses) and those things that are still coming (my first Paris in Seoul). How could this ever be alien to me?

listening to: Buffalo Soldier // Bob Marley & The Wailers
reading: The Joy Luck Club // Amy Tan

get lucky sometimes

Oh Lesbia, who are you? And who are we?

I have a torrent happening in my mind, a literary hemmorage -- Sappho Sulpicia Seneca Tertullian Ovid Dante Petrarch Catullus Thucydides Homer Virgil Valla Guardino (to name the last few days).

I've been feeling cut off whenever I talk to you these days. I spend my days thinking about the sex and my nights dreaming about uncertainty -- what does this say? And yet sometimes it is quite the reverse.

listening to: even the losers // tom petty and the heartbreakers
reading: the italian renaissance // paula findlen

moisturizer problems

i officially have no money, after filling my gas tank up 4 times last month and a 200$ moving violation fine from last month. i mean, not literally no money at all, but i'm working ten hours a week and i need:
clothing related things
to pay emilie back for the 300$ plane ticket
800$ for tack in the spring
christmas presents
a new gi
gas money
food money
laundry money
etc.

& not want to die when it's all over.

reading // women's life in greece and rome, by levkowitz and fant
listening to // malcom mclaren, about her