We are Security International

12:05am: is it not surprising that,
"2/3 of a college's income comes from the drugs that they sell"

2:18pm: my room my life
when everything is such a mess,
it's easy to think that one
has less.



(on the other hand, what is all this junk? it's embarrassing.)

12:31pm: zomgz
lolz, 1337 nerdz0r c0mputar science maj0r just imd me and teh 1a5t thing she said was 'byes'! ahhhh pwnt!!!

7:17pm: i constantly feel compelled to post on this thing,
probably because my classes bore me. this is a first!


beirut, please get your strength back, i need to see you.

so, 'house of leaves' is 'postmodern'.

i read a good article on postmodern narrative and realism the other day. this theory was particularly thought-provoking:
"[according to the rich people's postmodernists], Reality is negotiable, except the negotiations take place in the remote domain of the political and corporate elites: the truth of a statement is measured by its deniability , and the purpose of language is to deter indefinitely meaning and, therefore, understanding"..."Contemporary fiction has to develop new models to access, dismantle, and reassemble the fictional world of the Bushed America and thus reinsert facts back into OUR logical space. It has to excavate true human experience from under the debris of Operations Enduring Freedom and American Victimhood. IT needs to restore the belief in the power of nonnegotiable human truth and so create home-in-language for those who are dead or lost in lies. A different Operation Homecoming is ahead of us. American fiction is going to have to reclaim American reality"

hm, okay.

of course, as far as the validity/efficacy/narrative power of realism goes, the article's conclusion was strongly paradoxical with a hint of 'it's all relative.'

making human contact is the name of the clumsily-played game, and tonight i am as ambivalent as ever. i am going to see a girl who called me a whoreslut in firstclass bold times new roman font (jokingly, but only i am allowed to do that, and even then i keep things in unquestioningly mild, friendly jest with such pet names as 'poopface' and 'stinkybutt') and smooth n' sleazy foreign men -- mel j and dan will be there! thank goodness -- and and um and good god, i seem to walk away unscathed when acting under the shroud of stumbling, hug-happy anonymity. still, i miss my friends.

5:01pm: i was so drunk last night,
i didn't even undress for bed.

and i usually don't do the whole, "i can't remember what i did last night!" thing,
but i DO remember doing things i (the sane one) really didn't want to once i got hit
by...i can't even name it! maybe "it" is just 1:25 a.m.

Hillel wants to talk to students with one jewish parent/grandparent,
have a little interfaith summit.
and to what end? i'm already interfaith. interlotsofthings, actually.
i hope they don't think this event is supposed to be remedial.

ahhhhhh jen saves the day!!

yeah, no more indians.

saw someone i met at dartmouth this morning,
got excited about recognizing him,
remembered he was mediocre (a douche)
and immediately regretted initiating a dialogue,
but was still proud that i know a face when i see one.

let's put a secret karaoke machine in the pub, ok?

8:52pm: maybe we can just hook me up to an IV or something.
i'll call this one "stomach flu"
i missed my own goddamn opening. this is a pattern for me.
well! a chemist told me he thought my print was "really cool" and "one of the better ones there." Phyllis says it's right by the window to the street and I have "great exposure". a fantastic debut. i showed up at the after party, in white (ghost white, emerging in the aftermath, tired and delirious and wasting away...i thought it appropo!). things were awkward, but waslohn kept me moving (thanks again for the soup!), as we shook it? cut a rug? shimmied? is there no better synonym for 'dance'?...as we danced with some well-aged artists.
i asked a boy if he was Parker. "No, sorry, I am not a Parker." he was a folk musician. "a visual artist as well!" i didn't ask for his name. i think i might have made him uncomfortable. does no one strike up conversation with strange peers anymore? he was starting to blush, just on one tiny circle right above his eyebrow. we all have those things, i guess. i'll try not to ambush anyone like that again.
standing up is difficult, but so is falling asleep. how long have i been in bed? Maybe I'll read this David Byrne interview. sing to myself. ignore the passage of time...

oh! and i heard some girl on her cell phone at brunch, saying she "feels so bad since last night!" -- could she perhaps be referring to a certain culinary foible, a late-night/early-morning combustion? i'm no sleuth, but this seems fishy.

11:54pm: oh man, postcard phobia!

i wish i were more consistent with this extrovert/introvert thing.
perhaps i could convince a friend living in lake house to get a flashlight. we'll send coded messages across the dark lot. maybe we could plan an escape to the lake, play pranks on the House Presidents.

what i should really do is join a commune. i remember giving in to sleep in the midst of decadence and chatter and awkward situations i was completely oblivious to, apparently. i felt good about that routine. happy, even.

anyway, i have discovered the common thread connecting those i most admire: individuals who look like they are going through complete shit but are creating beautiful things (this conclusion drawn from the fact that i saw a fascinating older man at a coffee shop tuesday, and couldn't decide if he was homeless or just a worn intellectual).

10:08pm: sometimes i hear how many times i say the word, "like"
and i hear my wisconsin accent, the dipthongs
and i'm saying "whatever" a lot, too!
i HOPE this is just a phase!

why am i coughing?

new year's, wintersession (oh paris!), school, spring break, school, summer vacayyy
the us. (the yewsh?)

wife?
where you at, wifey?

i was supposed to see more people this past week.
going out to celebrate the new year feels like an obligation.
i really just want to read Murakami, is that okay?
maybe work on my grammar?

3:59pm: i live for gossip
omg
i'm sure i'm way behind on this tidbit, but apparently, God has a g/f!!
if you know about this, i'd love to get the scoop.
maybe i should just wikipedia it,
this is too subtle for google.

wikihow...
they should have a wikiwhy...

10:58am: i was supposed to take the color quiz (which i did)
and post -- but i couldn't
because it was so true but also so very sad. but i am taking the necessary steps toward finding comfort in a different sequence of colors.

2:29pm: inertia!

5:14am: has cat power always been this weird? not just crazy weird, but just weird.

1:32am: the score for "giselle" seems too happy. can i rewrite it?

11:31am: i feel old
thanks for the gift!
i saw people passing out money, paying
back i.o.u's --
i thought it was drug-dealing
or computer-fixing
(or book-buying, as she "explained" to me)
but it was loopstation-buying!

love it/you's guysssss

8:36pm: !!
not a widow!

6:25pm: widow?
omg
facebook says I'm married...
to no one!
i think i've had enough uncertainty
in relationships. even
if they aren't real!
status, pansexual.

futuresex?

stippling like mad,
marielle

1:43am: wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifeeeee! :o(

10:44am: does anyone know how to put an mp3 up here?

2:06am: making up ditties

one of em sounds like deathcab (___ ___)

c'est la vie!

10:57am: i am integrating!

4:16pm: Really though, what the fuck is going on?
I suppose I feel self-reliant and independent, and I'm glad for that. But lately it only takes a few minutes of overthinking and missing and wondering why I am in the situation I'm in to feel utterly wounded and lost. Both my logic and intuition are so tangled that my true opinions are completely unrecognizable.
It took me two hours to get ready this morning -- most of these long minutes were spent mustering the effort to get out of bed, to have one of those fast-breathing panic attacks, to take the longest shower possible as I silently struggled through waves of sadness and anger and confusion, of despondence and a reactionary confidence (a sort of retaliation against any sign of being lugubrious or...sunken). It's 90 degrees outside, and the hills here put me uncomfortably close to the sun. I just left one coffee shop that was suddenly overrun with 13 year-olds (miniskirts, side-parts, boyfriends with baggy band t-shirts. and such awkward necks!) to the safety of the adjacent establishment, to the comfort of upper middle-aged, upper middle-class patrons indulging in books and wine. I've tried and grown tired of eye contact with strangers.
It's all so superficial, really, like walking from a green room to a red one -- I can adapt, I can be versatile, and lately I've felt homeless, just walking from one room to another, on the plane too frequently, having too many dreams where my loved ones are represented by a cell phone (jesus christ!). These days it's been increasingly more difficult to be a chameleon (the survival skill in which I once took the most pride), and I'm forced to find a place, psychologically, that is home. But all this coping, worrying, wondering, vascillating...even my mind and heart are violently uprooted.
It isn't even all about lost loves, really, or first loves that are never lost (all this drama is ridiculous but also kind of inevitable, don't you think?). It's more about pushing and pulling and wanting and waiting, and the uncertainty/unsteadiness of "now"/"lately."
Sometimes, though, I do feel at home and good. I recline in that dandelion-yellow, late-afternoon sun, let my arm hang out the window to trace the hills with my fingers, and savor stray, familiar notes that rise and hover above the wind.

shipbuilding,
marielle

12:33pm: breaking up with someone you are still in love with -- (you feel)
is it dumb? (you think)

12:04am: Gaius Germanicus goes to Wellesley, according to Facebook. Naturally, no friends made yet.

4:19pm: story of my life
I like you

I never see you

3:50pm: Writing papers makes me want to write poetry. My mind's always off somewhere else, somewhere abstract. I'm observing all the things that are so impertinent to these obligations I've created for myself but, in my mind, so essential to feeling human. Life is looking more like a battle lately -- now trudge through, now relief and retrench, now push forward again, now wait. Lots of waiting. My stretched anatomy is rattling between walls of mud and times like this just aren't appropriate for hearing song in twisted air or designing patterns from afternoon silhouettes or whatever it is people do when they 'open themselves up to the gentle indifference of the world'. But this distracting anxiety keeps my senses alert, my body poised for action, and I can say that at least I feel alive.

Bored of bulleted outlines,
Marielle