And..

So: it is accomplished. I did everything I set out to do, Sunday night. It gave me good thoughts and feelings.

So: much more new music. I found a music blog that is just my taste, and also the deviantArters are proving to be a good source of great music, thanks to the necessity of titles for their deviations and the lack of creativity in that area, on average.

So: I have a lot of ideas about things to do for my room...like cotton ball clouds, and satin walls. Perhaps a silhouette portrait in an antique glass frame, or something equally charming and homemade.

So: it's an old day, at this point, and it has been full. My icon supply is replenished and I am coming to terms with myself and the world. I might pierce the back of my neck; perhaps the back of my tongue. I am still unsure, but I so, so want a tattoo. It doesn't matter anymore, the repercussions of old age.

In Celebration.

In a few minutes, it will be 10:10:10 on 10.10.10. I plan to celebrate somehow; I haven't made up my mind yet how exactly I'll do it, but I have about 20 minutes.

It's been a good day. We walked through a field full of grass and weeds as high as our waists, and I read a book of photography that blew me away. I watched The Corpse Bride and loved it for many, many reasons.

The diet's working; green is a good color on me; I read in a book on Faerie that fairies have always favored green; the crescent moon came out tonight; there is nothing like approval to satisfy the heart; I love my state of singleness and all its possibilities, all its potential, and all its freedom;

The semi-colon is a useful little chap, as Abraham Lincoln said.

I now have about ten minutes to determine my mode of celebration.

Today I felt happy; today I remembered that "this too shall pass."

I think I've figured it out; how to celebrate, I mean. I'm going to draw a butterfly. I'm going to write a poem and not think, not censor, not second-guess myself at all; then I am going to brew myself a pot - not a cup - a pot of tea, take one cookie, and go outside, look at the moon, and think and think and think until my parents yell at me to come inside.

I'm going to put on a dress and heels and put a bow in my hair.

Goodnight. I go now to prepare.

Indulge Me.

Today is National Music Appreciation Day (or something), and I have been appreciating music very much. I've also been appreciating typewriters and journals and light and trees and this Indian summer weather and the hippie style of dress and tea and perfectly roasted chicken and learning how to love and learning about the Constitution and reading, reading, reading.

I've been wondering whether my poems, the ones I struggle over and second-guess, are any good. They've stopped rhyming conventionally (I've thrown in much more internal rhyme and rhythm), and I suppose they've grown as I have. Maybe people aren't ready for them. Maybe I delude myself. I wanted to say "regardless," but it's not... I care very much if my work is quality or not. It matters to me what my poems make you feel. The images you see as you read are incredibly important to me.

But there is very little feedback. I wish I had more of it, good or bad, just so I could know what I'm doing wrong, or right, or what.

I wrote this one about a week ago and it garnered more response on dA than any other piece I've done.

Indulge Me.

If I write about important things,
and the world is thrown
into a circle of unrest, a valley of death;

If I write and they crown me queen
march out from underneath me in droves
(black and yellow, red and white,
all are precious in my sight) and my ideas
are cheered like new green things
growing from black moss, and I’m so boss
I’m crazy but they love love love me;

If I write out a grand new scheme that
came to me in the swirly cream of my cappuccino,
and the new National Capital is the
corner Starbucks, and the guerillas in their
jungles turn their guns into fruit juice;

If I write a word that tosses the content
of the cabinet like a controversial salad
all the animals in the zoo run wild through
the swampy narrows then
the alleyways reverse from the dank;

If I write with a prowess
so that upheaval follows
the stress of political correctness;

Life, Sweet Life.

David Gray sings a song called Nemesis:

I am the thoughts you are too ashamed to share..

I have some of those. They're all I've been thinking about, all last night and almost all day. They linger in my mind and catch my tongue like burrs. They fill my throat with puffs of cotton, my chest with crowds of heartbeats.

But I'm good now. Menial tasks such as washing dishes are strangely effective at washing away things like thoughts and musings other than music and bubbles. I'm glad for it: I've missed that innocence.

Now I can swing my feet, and listen to music and love it for its melodies and not its message (you may know of my penchant for sad or wistful songs), and look at art and love its beauty instead of nearly-weep over the emotions it stirs.

And that is this day: a blustery, autumn-y sort of day in which I met a Top Chef, was confused by my own circles of thoughts, talked a little bit, played a little bit, walked a little bit. A day in which I lived.

From What I Once Was.

Today I saw a biker man in a blue shirt and squarish sunglasses. He was tall and blonde and just enough of chunky to make him solid; he held his wife's hand and dropped some money casually into the donation bucket of some teenager. My theory remains: all the good guys are either gay, taken, or ninety.

Today I want to have the excuse of insomnia, instead of just being too awake to sleep. I want to go into my room and find a bed that alone in the room, alone with its lavender sheets and Dutch-trimmed pillows. A room that's whitewashed with little pastels colors all over it: baby blue sheer curtains filtering moonlight, a soft yellow rug on the floor, pink flowers and hearts strewn across the walls.

Today I lived an entire day, mostly, outside, but it's so hard to remember easily. I remember the soft sunshine in the morning, and the grand comforts to be found inside the hood of my 80's-inspired hoodie, and joking around with the Vanilla Gorilla, and those beautiful old glossy cars, and the extreme loveliness of the layers of my hair. Have I begun to think in icons, I wonder. I have some new ones.

Would you settle for a wasted life?

We can't always belong to a place in time.

Come along for the ride, let them take you inside -

No one wants to wait anymore;

Come along for the ride, let them take you inside.

And all my thoughts wrapped up in neverending white lights

and celestial beings parting ways with me;

I'm losing faith in life.

Too afraid tonight to lie awake

And in my thoughts there are ways of getting lost.