things that have made me happy lately:

Justin rescinding his faux-angry accusation of me forgetting about helping with auditions when he found out I was at a wake.
Colin and I making really un-funny southern jokes, and him appreciating my gusto at being able to use the word 'bayou' in a sentence.
Recounting a story about when I had to pee off a bridge.
Zack's nightly advice sessions. He needs no beard of wisdom.
Shannon's strange Facebook statuses.
Messages from men who I thought forgot about me.

The Connecticut greenery.
My anticipation of traveling to Harkness State Park tomorrow.

Italian.
Spanish.
More Spanish and Italian.
Having my grandma show me a picture of a beautiful baby, then telling me three minutes later that it is dead in the photo.
Mutton chops.

Justin, Carly, BT, DeMarco, AJ, and Robert.
Guys who play the tin flute and accordion.
Fake French accents.
Gay jokes.

Pasqualina.
Adoption stories.

Sleeping a full eight hours.

Vince's voicemail.
Unexpected positive responses to things I was worried about.
The beach.
The faint smell of suntan lotion in the fabric of the beach chair.
Breezes off the water.
Dad in a good mood.

Waiters giving me better service for being bilingual.
Free desserts.
Being told I have a great accent and I sound native.
Then fucking up my verb tenses and being laughed at.

My polka-dot orange and yellow bra.

Sunny days.
Seventies.
My crappy car.
Me.

a gift for me

So, I need you all to do me a favor.

I need you to think of a time that I did something for you/said something to you that was nice/unexpected. And then I need you to write that something in my comments box.

It's just something I need to see right now. So if you have the time.

Do you always feel this crappy when you're standing on the brink of starting something amazing and new, but haven't quite gotten there yet?

Despite being a relatively mature and worldly eighteen-year-old, at least for suburban American standards, I was still naive enough to believe that 'kapeesh' was a common household phrase. From Tulsa, Oklahoma to Fargo, North Dakota, I pictured old sweaty Southern men on tractors and young blond-haired blue-eyed housewives with Scandinavian ancestries 'kapeeshing' their offspring from dawn till dusk.

Perhaps it wasn't actually naivete that drove me to this conclusion, but rather the fact that I had never really thought about it before. Don't talk back to your mother, kapeesh? Take out the trash and we'll go for ice cream, kapeesh? Don't tell Aunt Lena that I threw out her moldy leftovers, kapeesh? The word was far less foreign to me than most of the vocabulary I encountered and stumbled over during my formative years. Kapeesh was short and to the point. It rolled off the tongue pleasurably, a rush through the first syllable in order to savor the long 'e', the whoosh of the 'sh' as it cut the word furtively short. It was a code that everyone understood; it revealed a contract of responsibility and sometimes secrecy, an unrivaled bond between the kapeesh-er and the kapeesh-ee.

This abrupt discovery, this hidden enlightenment, was probably the first time I ever realized any important distinction between myself and other white people. It was only when someone revealed to me their ignorance of the word that I finally realized - not everyone was Italian-American.

This small and ignorant gain towards a sense of my individualized Caucasian identity led me to investigate other insignificant differences. People found my pronunciation of the word 'quarter' - 'water' flooding into my enunciation - nothing short of hilarious. Realization: not everyone was from central Connecticut. And what about 'pellow' and 'melk'? Not everyone was the child of a second-generation working-class immigrant family. My 'chasm' didn't hide the 'h' but rather pronounced it with New-England pride; and my 'subtle' was anything but, as I revealed the holes I had received in my seventh-grade education. I wasn't White. I was different. I was me.

It didn't make me special, because no one else saw. That was fine with me. At least I knew I wasn't White anymore. I wasn't bland. I wasn't categorized, shipped out on a conveyor belt to be coupled with those blond-haired blue-eyed Scandinavian housewives or those sweaty men on tractors with whom I shared no real common identity save that which society imposed upon us. And I realized the ludicrousness which shaped my Caucasian identity, this system that robbed me of my heritage just because I had no pigment in my skin. To be White was to be bland. To be White was to be judged and to never be able to call other people on it, because inherently to be White was to be racist.

I became a Spanish major. And I started speaking about the reverse-racism in our society because I got sick of hearing about how I was the oppressor. I wasn't the oppressor because I refused to buy into the system. And people looked at me in disgust when I suggested that I felt uncomfortable around the Hispanic population in Allentown, NOT because I was racist and because they were different, but because they robbed me of my ability to be different right along with them. They bought into the White label. I wasn't allowed to speak Spanish because that difference didn't belong to the label I was put under.

I am fed up with being told what I am and what I am not.

But don't tell the other people I told you, kapeesh?

I miss feeling secure.

Today I went for a drive with my dad on small back roads in small towns, whipping by small colonial homes with crippled fences and demolished stone walls. And the air smelled of dogwood flowers and wildflowers and fresh grass and resevoirs, and the trees bent low over the road and the sunlight was dapple-patterned as it snuck through the space between their leaves, and the seat was warm and my dad was smiling, and we were both quiet as we drove.

As the youngest child, it seemed everyone else's job was to look after and take care of me. I was responsible for no one but myself, and the security I garnered from the protection of my elders was immense enough for me to grow confidently into myself. My dad was a big part of that security system. At times he seemed overbearing and overprotective, which encouraged me to find and fight for my independence even more. And every time I failed to be strong, he was there for me.

When we came home this afternoon, I noticed my dad had turned pale. I got him quickly to the couch and gave him his medicine. Then, I held his hand as he moaned and shouted and cried, and I left his side once he finally fell asleep.

I have always been attracted to men who have wanted to look after me. I like the sense of protection I find in a relationship. I have someone to run to, someone to talk to, someone to hold me when I fall.

I wonder how long I have left with my dad. I worry that it isn't enough time, but that's a silly concern, because no matter how much time was left, it wouldn't be enough.

The men I have relied on so inherently have all seemed to leave me when I need them the most. I need them now. I find that without them, I have no basis to be independent. You need to have a safe base established before you can branch out on your own. And my base is cracking.

I love my friends, but it isn't enough. I feel so scared at the thought of being alone without the people I rely on the most.

I just want something to be stable for once.

mostly for myself

Exciting week.
Back to reality now.

Things I need done before next weekend:
Grammar workshop write-ups
Supplementary writing workshop write-ups
Flashcards made for the verbal sections of the GRE
Packing and cleaning my room
Car tire rotation and oil change

Things I should have done last week:
All of the above

Things I am currently reading:
The Snapper
Bird by Bird
The Life of Pi
A Happy Death

Things I should be reading:
Don Quixote
Sons and Lovers
Every other British classic known to man

Things I am arranging:
I Remember
I'd Give It All For You

Where I want to be:
the beach

Where I am:
the breakfast table.

Jobs I've been offered in the past week:
Tutoring for a Parkland High student, 20-30 bucks an hour
Cleaning a neighbor's house, 80/four hours

Jobs I'll actually do:
the parkland high

Additional jobs I'll have next semester:
tutoring with ARC
workshop tutor, ARC

Additional jobs I want next semester:
Barnes and Noble cashier
Info Desk receptionist

Number of jobs I have time for next semester:
0

Amount of money in bank account:
24.37

Number of jobs I've been frightened into taking on account of my poverty:
4

That's a pretty fair list.

I was apprehensive entering the train Saturday morning. I had gotten woefully little sleep, but, and perhaps because my body was on guard, I felt no vestiges of my non-soporific evening. (I am also studying for my GREs and therefore have to begin using words like 'soporific' so that I don't forget them for the test. Look it up - it's listed between 'sophomoric' and 'soppy'.)

When I arrived at Grand Central, I felt, almost defensively, a posession of the environment I had entered. I must have exhibited my assumed indifference while catching the six, as a rather pushy woman with a heavy North-Jersian accent asked me if the train would take her to Bloomingdale's. This was MY train. This was MY city and MY path and MY destination.

I had to give that all up when I saw Zack in the park, my deference present in the hug I gave him.

So much has changed and not all of it bad. Veronica has changed slightly, and seems much more approachable. Harry definitely echoes myself - he has learned a bit of caution and self-defeat. His facial expressions parallelled mine on more than one occasion, which was strange, as I felt like I was looking at a reflection of my male doppelganger (not in my dictionary, although 'Don Quixote' and 'Dostoevsky' are). And Zack? He seems normal again, but in a strange way incredibly untouchable. I am beginning to notice now how his aloofness and his sometimes-inability to have tact when speaking really grate on me, and I am allowing myself to get annoyed by it, finally, after three years. He is not special anymore, although he holds a special place in my heart and brain. I react to him viscerally and subconciously, my brain not remembering our past but my body fully present. He serves as a constant reminder of how I am mired in a past life.

Switch to a couple of days before that, when I was lying on a strip of sand in the middle of nowhere Connecticut, desperately removing a tick from the back of my neck and being watched bemusedly by an old friend. The reeds rustled on the far shore, which in reality wasn't very far, and strange birds swooped low over our heads, their iridescent blue bodies glinting like mini-firecrackers in the blue blue sky. We cuddled that night and briefly kissed, both of us knowing that the timing wasn't right, that in two days he would leave for Texas and I probably wouldn't see him for another year or so, but it was so comfortable that we couldn't resist at least playing pretend.

I am sick of pretend. It seems to permeate my life more than reality ever has.

I have decided that by the end of the summer I will find someone willing to paint a head-to-toe mural on my body.

I'll even wear undergarments if they get embarassed easily. They can paint over those, too.

And then I will take tons of glorious pictures.

This is my summer goal.

Things this year made me realize...

I have realized that I am not unsure of myself, but rather, I am unsure of everything that happens around me.
Six bottles of wine per semester is not enough.
Probably the most pleasant surprise is finding you are tired enough to fade quietly into sleep at the end of the day.
My bank account will be woefully empty for the next ten years, and I should get used to it.
Sex is not the only physical activity that succeeds in keeping me in my body and out of my head. But it may be the most pleasant.
Losing things you love is the most painful feeling in the world.
Time is a fucking bitch.
My aura does not attract amazing people like a magnet. I have to go out looking for them.
There are easily 20 people on this campus I could instantly be best friends with, if I had the time and energy to find them.
You can hate someone's guts and love them to death at the same time.
Or, you can hate someone's guts and feel perfectly justified in doing so.
I am more intimate with men whom I am not dating.
I constantly want to be surrounded by the people I love.
I will never be content while standing still.
There really are FBI agents lurking around every corner!
I will never write anything incendiary enough to get me killed in a capitalist society. This suits me fine.
Considering myself a genius does not make me pompous, but rather self-empowered.
When you spend the proper amount of time on it, English is in many ways a more challenging major than Biology.
For every twenty crappy things I write, there is one sentence that makes it all worthwhile.
I cannot stand dirty bathrooms.
Dating down is both a good and bad idea.
I get in the way of my own happiness.
Crushes are my muse.

a beautiful song i'm currently finding inspiring

I want to live where soul meets body
And let the sun wrap its arms around me
And bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing
And feel, feel what its like to be new

Cause in my head there’s a greyhound station
Where I send my thoughts to far off destinations
So they may have a chance of finding a place
where they’re far more suited than here

And I cannot guess what we'll discover
When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels
But I know our filthy hands can wash one another’s
And not one speck will remain

And I do believe it’s true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too
So brown eyes I hold you near
Cause you’re the only song I want to hear
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

-soul meets body, death cab for cutie

Sometimes, without doing anything different, I begin to feel like I've got a grip on things.

It's good stuff.

I'm starting to do some independent work and research on Colm Toibin's The South and despite having considerable knowledge of third-wave Irish drama, I feel like I'm missing an important piece of the puzzle when I begin to look at this novel.

I wish I had the time to sit and figure it out on my own. Were I graduating this year, like I wish I were, I would have that time. I would make that time, at least.

My writing is so dull lately. I feel like I can't think through what I want to try and say. I am proud of very few things I've been producing. I feel like my writing isn't connected to where the world is currently. I feel like because of that, it won't ever be publishable, and if it is, that it won't sell.

I've been thinking in brief spurts about perhaps pursuing a master's in Publishing.
I've been thinking about quitting school and not telling my family, and moving to the city and working a shit job and being very poor.
I've been thinking about going to Spain but I doubt I'll actually get there.

I do too much thinking because I'm stuck and can't do any doing.

A letter to the dead.

I used to write beautiful things when I was happy.
I knew they were beautiful because you would come in and peer over my shoulder, which annoyed me, and you would tell me very simply, "That is beautiful." It was the only time you ever tried to admit you were proud of me.
I would write metaphors, I would write similies. I would write small poems on bits of tissue and rip the top layer with the point of my pen. And you would come in and say, "That is beautiful."

I remember the day you died. By the end of August the weather had become strange; there was an unusual proportion of mid-summer's dry heat which permeated the shortening days. The rose petals stood like small glass vials filled with cream and milk and pink sugar. There were too many bees, and I couldn't lie in the backyard on my towel without being molested by them.

I can think about the day but there is much else that I do not allow myself to think about. I do not allow myself the image of you connected to all those tubes. How they would come and turn you, side to side, and put vasoline on your lips with their fingers, and comb your hair to the side. I do not allow myself to think about how I lied in bed that morning with the light streaming in through my wispy shade, wishing away knowing that I had to go and see you, and kiss your forehead, and whisper goodbye to you. You had changed. It was your body but already you weren't there.

I don't allow myself to think about how beautiful my writing used to be. I can barely remember my favorite sentences, and I cannot remember yours. You would say them out loud to yourself and smile gently. Recently a man asked me what was Italy like? And I told him it was like eating chocolate all day and never getting sick of it. I hated that metaphor. It felt false and ugly. It was trite and stupid. Never like when I used to write beautifully.

I have entered the city now. I have sat here and thought perhaps you would call, but I know really you can't do that now, can you? You should have been busy here too, with your own friends. Perhaps we wouldn't have stayed in touch anyway. Sometimes I walk down the sidewalk on the side of Central Park, the morning still cool and damp, and watch the street vendors set up shop on old tablecloths and flimsy tables with rusty legs. They all sell the same things. I walk down and then up after I've reached 86th Street, because we never went much farther down than that, unless I had made a mistake and continued walking and you just followed me and watched me get lost. But you followed so you could lead me back and you would laugh at me and say that's just what I did, I got lost, but you would lead me back.

You have been dead too long. It was too soon. These are also ugly things I say, although they aren't forced into metaphors.

I am very poor and you would not have enjoyed me being poor. I have lines on my face that shouldn't be there for another ten years. I don't smoke. I drink a little too much and a little too often on my own. I have a television but I don't use it. I have a typewriter but it is mostly for show. I have my computer and on that I write proliferately. No one comes in and looks over my shoulder and tells me it is beautiful.

It isn't beautiful. But that's the way these things go.

about a girl

I feel very disconnected from life lately. Sort of floating around, not quite in my body, not quite in the moment, saying and doing things that aren't quite what I normally say or do.

I'm thinking about a girl. Well, not a girl in particular, although this stemmed from a girl in particular, but the idea of a girl. It's a very enticing thought - warm arms, soft hair, witty repartee. Evenings in coffee shops. Evenings at home. Listening to stories so similar to mine, being understood, being casual but close. Just being in the moment.

I've almost entirely forgotten what that is like. It is a vastly different feeling than liking a guy. It is more subtle, more demure, sneakier in the way the idea unfolds in my mind, slower in my uptake and cautious in my movement.

It's been so long since I've even considered the option. It's so rare that I actually look at a girl and go, yeah, that would be right for me.

Perhaps now, more than ever, that would be right for me.