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back from new york [06 Dec 2004|09:14pm] Franz said, "Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it. We’ve always had an aesthetic intention and a long-range plan. That’s what enabled Western man to spend decades building a Gothic cathedral or a Renaissance piazza. The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. It’s unintentional. It arose independent of human design, like a stalagmitic cavern. Forms which are in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry." Sabina said, "Unintentional beauty. Yes. Another way of putting it might be 'beauty by mistake.' Before beauty disappears entirely from the earth, it will go on existing for awhile by mistake. 'Beauty by mitake'—the final phase in the history of beauty." -Kundera start fires

[16 Oct 2004|05:10pm] I've been so busy lately fall almost happened without me. but I love cold weather. I love pulling out my sweaters and mittens and hanging up dried flowers and opening hot chesnuts with my fingers. Also, I love New England!

[27 Aug 2004|11:32am] Sometimes when I see something I think this has got to be a big secret. I can't believe I've found out. start fires

[29 Jul 2004|02:29pm] Sometimes when it's really hot and sunny outside I get so tired my eyes become little slits and all I can see are bright glints of Jackie's uncle's harmonica and higher blue that was probably the sky. We stay on her porch where she paces and attemps to play a few scattered notes and I count the boards because the forth one is unstable and the tenth one squeaks. Sometimes I bring out tomatoes from the yard that taste like the sun and we'll eat them while they're still warm. I like to fall asleep in the afternoon listening to her talk about nonlinear time. I haven't brushed my hair in three days.

[19 Jul 2004|04:17pm] I've decided that I believe in god, just not the same way you do.

[29 Jun 2004|09:51pm] One of my favorite places is the library. I think I could spend all my time there and never ever leave. Once I saw the library security guard escorting an old man out for sleeping. They don't like people to live there. I don't know why. He was being quiet. He wasn't snoring or anything. And I see why he would want to live there. There are many smells in the library. Old book smells. New book smells. I go through the rows, M-O, 351.15-470.12. I have favorites on each shelf. I have a special corner in the back of the wildlife and garden section where no one ever goes. From there I can hear everything in the reading rooms. Mostly coughing and clearing throats and rustling papers and typing. The air is thick in the library.

[22 Jun 2004|08:41am]

[21 Jun 2004|05:44pm] Tim and I were bike riding at night when we came upon a car dealership with too many blinding lights and waving red flags and balloons. And despite the lights and the flags and the balloons, it seemed like the most vacant and deserted place on earth. He squinted and said, "There's no comfort in being bright and empty."

[15 Jun 2004|11:35pm]

[09 Jun 2004|05:48pm] Hannah and I sat outside the hedges and decided we lived there drinking sour lemonade out of a can and making faces at each other. Then we would paint ourselves to match the siding and hide while the two ghosts came out to have their daily conversation in the yard.

[02 May 2004|05:14pm]

[24 Apr 2004|10:52pm] I was a wreck when I called you last night and you told me a story about a castle on a calm blue ocean with a bard in it that sang "come unto these yellow sands" except there was no sand only miles of blue ocean and I hummed along so that it sank in, so that I thought I had a mosquito living in my heart because after you cry everything shakes you a little more than usual. And I know that you told me a long story because I woke up this morning curled with a phone pressed against my head and it was making those beeping noises. I don't remember the ending so sometime I'm going to have to ask you to tell it to me again. Today I spent time with Aunt Nadine in her garden. I feel so happy when I'm watering and weeding with her and when I sink my feet into the warm soil and make holes like the worms do. It is always soothing and simple and I can feel how much Aunt Nadine loves her garden by the way she touches the leaves and stems and the way she loosens the soil and the way she looks at her plants without moving for a long long time. I know I ought to introduce you to her, but I'm selfish and I want to keep her to myself for a little while longer besides I talk to her about you and I like having someone to keep my secrets. I know that when she meets you she'll love you and she won't be able to keep anything from you. I know this because I can't either.

[13 Apr 2004|09:57pm] I like being uncertain and undecided.

[22 Mar 2004|10:57am] I thought Angela Lindvall was so beautiful when she wished that cats could talk.

[01 Mar 2004|10:09pm]

[22 Feb 2004|05:34pm] Things I miss: 1. Biarritz, France 2. Flowers bigger than my fist 3. Summmmer 4. Holding on tight

[22 Feb 2004|05:07pm] [ music | I'm going out sleepwalking ] This morning was cold and I went out walking. It was so early and so cold and I felt like I had to walk so much that I hardly bothered to tie my sneakers and I was out the door, setting a quick steady pace down the sidewalk. These mornings when it's so quiet (so quiet that I can hear the last lightpole buzzing before it goes out) I like to imagine I'm the only thing moving; a quiet beat winding its way though the suburban wilderness.

[16 Feb 2004|05:03pm] I think: I can hardly look at you because you're so bright, and the center of the sun, which is also the center of your smile, is like the ghost of summer in this wheat field; not blinding like the snow, but golden as it passes through glittering stalks. And I think you must have been a king because everything touched by your smile has turned to gold.

[15 Feb 2004|06:53pm] I'm feeling so much right now I can't even talk.

slip! [10 Feb 2004|06:34pm] It's winter and there are birds outside my window and birds inside my roof. I know this because when it's really quiet I can hear the beams above creaking from scratchy steps, and in the spring there comes a chorus of little voices. I like to think I'm living under a piano.

[03 Feb 2004|10:35pm] The house was quiet because it had to be.

[03 Feb 2004|09:48pm] I have been spending time with an elderly lady we call Aunt Nadine. She is not really my aunt but we call her that because she might as well be, and because it makes us feel closer. After school I make a little trek to her house and we make tiny sandwiches with cucumbers in them and eat them with green tea. Sometimes I do my schoolwork quietly and sometimes I flip through her old photo albums. I am always hungry for the tiny sandwiches. She tells me hunger is a sign of life and laughs at my enthusiasm. I tell her that food has always held a special meaning for me. It's not just something to fill me when I am hungry. It is something beautiful. I like foods that are cooked in a way that brings out their subtle flavors. Aunt Nadine laughs at this, and she slices her tomatoes thin. Sometimes we throw pasta against to wall to see if it's cooked. "Hunger is a sign of life." "So is love." "I'm famished."

old box [25 Jan 2004|01:30pm] new year, new kite!

[24 Jan 2004|05:24pm] It is winter a newborn opens his wide red mouth in drop five clusters of snow from a tree that has five proud fingers curling against the sky up the corners of January Wide red hands are birds pulling the cold air into dark wrinkles these shadows, they are just ideas that have lost focus he shuts his eyes, sees colours spine against the sun the snow is bright and we are young

There must have been something interesting in the water. There always is! [15 Jan 2004|05:25pm] In the time it takes for a small winged desert finch to snatch up an unsuspecting pretty green beetle, I have traversed the solar system and squeezed the sun between my thumb and forefinger.

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