A Collection of Spectacles


Small change:

I retracted my application to Penn State. I was almost done with it, but I realized that I didn’t want to spend money and apply to a school that I’m pretty sure I’m not going to attend. Instead, I added Eugene Lang College, (I keep thinking of the actor, Eugene Levy) which is a really small liberal arts school in Greenwich Village. The school seems a little “new” (it’s actually called the new school for liberal arts) which can be bad as well as good, so I might not go there, but it’s nice to have another option. Other choices include (aka where I’ve applied): Emerson, NYU, Hunter, The City College of New York. If I go to one of the CUNY’s, I’ll apply for the honors program, probably my second year there. I plan on studying either Journalism, Communications, or some sort of social science that I can apply to writing.  

blah blah blahhh. 

The other day, in Philosophy, my teacher made everyone in class write notes to ourselves. Next year, in December, she’s going to mail them out. I kind of didn’t know what to do, because I’m pretty sure that my parents are moving when I go. I guess this blog is my “time capsule” then. 

Thinking about the future is kind of scary.

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I ordered books!

The Atrocity Exhibition (J.G. Ballard)

Don Quixote: A Novel (Kathy Acker)

+ Something else. It’s part of a present. 

      *        *           *

I really would like it if something pleasant happened. I don’t know what exactly, but I’m hoping for good things.

I don’t want to develop the mannerisms of wounded romantics. That is, to become amorously involved with people you like and can withstand, but to turn away the ones you actually care for on a deeper level, because feeling in its truest form involves a certain amount of risk. 

Everything keeps changing, propelling forward or jumping back, but it seems nothing is ever motionless. The scenery, as of late: The trees are naked, the cold has stripped them bare, and the ground is empty and barren. Where was I when everything was still in bloom? Stuck in a mental fog, I missed the opportunity to bask in brighter days. 

Time never waits but sometimes I feel it should.

Edit: Tonight = The biggest full moon of the year!

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More. Thoughts are stuck in my mind that must be let out. 

The following is a warning, a disclaimer:

I have studied the nature of life and found her to be fickle and untrustworthy. The only way to quiet her is to follow her every whim. To live, it seems, is to become one with subservience. 

When trapped between the tongue and palate of her most vile schemes, the only thing to do is to preoccupy oneself with the quest for happiness. 

I will travel to the depths of existence for this. But, if I reach the bottom without first finding it, then I will make sure that I scream the loudest on the way down. 

If at any time the sound becomes too harsh and grating, feel free to cover your ears.

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I have spent long hours accompanied by loneliness, the ever-present fog that drifts in through hidden cracks and overlooked openings. Lately, I’ve been living an incomplete life,  constantly covered in the byproducts of my own unhappiness. Constantly surrounded by air that is so damp and weighed down that it’s a wonder that I haven’t been asphyxiated in the night. Yes, yes, she lived a good life but was tragically smothered to death by her own noxious gases. 

Still, there is a glistening thought that I hang on to. 

The hope that, one day, I’ll wrap my lips around the sweet girth of a beautiful “maybe.” 

I used to hope for a million “yeses,” constant affirmation for all the questions that I had yet to phrase. Now, maybe I want something more substantial. 

When I look back on my youth (and all my experimental follies) I want to say that I’d had at least one genuine “something,” rather than a collection of memories, haphazardly gathered by the mind, that were notorious for their brevity.

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i found something i wrote last week. 

i was really messed up (to the point that reality was bending and shifting, creating constant waves and motions) and i decided to make fun of myself. at least, i think that’s where my thoughts were headed. 

this is a satire on my boring meaningless life. ooh I forgot. but where is the meaning ? is it ever found?! these are a writer’s most poignant questions. 

I know where burrough’s mind was when he wrote naked lunch*. now I have an affinity with it. o loves the state of this drug.** 

* i mentioned the book only because i started re-reading it the day before. i made some allusion that wasn’t properly fleshed out but probably had something to do with the fact that he was on every sort of drug imaginable when he wrote it. 
** oh, how some substances can make the mind weave meaningless nothings! 

my friend was stricken with melancholy since september (a terrible sickness, really). recently, she fell in love, found a boy who fills her ears with late-night promises and gives her the distant prospect of maybe, possibly being wed. since then, she has been noticeably happier. 

out of everything that can be fathomed, (and that which remains to be thought of) i am sure that love is the only thing that can have such an impressive influence on an individual. Some devote their whole lives to the pursuit of material possessions and wealth, but five-star vacations eventually become old and tiresome if they’re always spent alone. 

i’ll revisit this later, but right now, i should go to sleep.


`Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I–I hardly know, sir, just at present– at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’

`What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!’

`I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir’ said Alice, `because I’m not myself, you see.’

`I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar.

`I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely, `for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’

`It isn’t,’ said the Caterpillar.

`Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis–you will some day, you know–and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?’

`Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar.


maybe i’ll fall into a beautiful dream that will lift the seams that hold together what’s real and what’s not.

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