so much of it hurts. it's less of a searing pain and more of a throbbing ache, like someone punched you with bony knuckles deep under your skin in a place where no mother's kisses or bandaids can help with the healing. don't worry, im not in some sort of state, it's just a dull ache that comes when truth or beauty hits you so hard that you lose your breath and are left standing gaping.
i've become fond of the wind. in new york there are these huge gusts of wind that sweep in between buildings and force people to bump into one another and drag their coats against a passing stranger's legs. that and they make the trees tremble. i'm avoiding.
this is what i'm writing about. and i don't care if you like my style or not. i went to see chekhov's 'the seagull' on broadway and time an d again konstantin says 'it's not about these new forms or old forms or the creation of forms. i'm beginning to think more and more that when you write it needs to come from the heart' horrible botched paraphrase, but you see. here is the drivel that has been living in my gut. i am desperately afraid of love.
there.
i am afraid to be loved and to give it, or at least give it in a way where i am left standing with nothing, where i am so vulnerable that i don't keep a string attached to every word i say, every gift of love that i give so that i can quickly pull the string and retract everything in the blink of an eye. and then i think, you're 21 why haven't you been in love? what is wrong with you? are you heartless? no, that's melodramatic, i know. maybe i am too idealistic.
kym and i tell each other stories of our future husbands to each other from time to time. when i was home for thanksgiving she laid her head on my stomach and i just got lost in the fantasy of something that could possibly never come to be. well, most likely whatever i tell her won't, whatever beautiful story she tells me won't happen, because it's not realistic.
how i loathe that word. it's a cop-out for people who are trying to justify settling into the life that they're leading.
but love. can i do it? i don't know. and then i beat myself up because the opportunity hasn't really presented itself. what? am i supposed to go and talk to guys at bars? hell no. im not doing that. and i'm not buying high heels for anyone either. maybe it's that i just have this fear of being single the rest of my life so i'm rushing to become a woman and find the love of my life and force myself to have a crush on any male being that makes the cut, which is rare even at that. ugh.man oh man.
it hurts to watch people hold each other on the subways. it does, i'm not going to lie. the deep gut ache that is there i don't know why, and part of me doesn't want it to go away right now. because it's there for a reason, i guess. and i know if it's gone then i've given something up. and at the same time i want to learn how to love, because part of me doesn't believe i know how.
this is rambling. this is journaling. if you made it through i commend you.
by the way, i'm not unhappy, i have a lot of joy. i just need to slow down and realize that i am enough.

Continuance from July 28...

" No lights are on in the house when I get home--save the little floodlight that often needs replacing outside. That and the ever present Christmas lights coiling down the stairway into the den.
I can't stand you today. It's nothing you've done or not done or said or failed to admit. It's just you. I'm beginning to understand why men don't understand women if we don't even understand ourselves.
Lately I stand outside our little red door and stare at the knocker-wondering if my grandpa's face will suddenly emerge from the tarnished handle like Jacob Marley--leaving me scared shitless. I leave my hand on the door wanting to turn and run and buy a pack of Marlboro lights and smoke two and a half while walking around our uneven streets--throwing the smoldering butts into pretentious gardens. I blow the smoke up so that i can walk through it because i love going to sleep with a cold head of hair latticed with cigarettes. that and i know you hate it. at least i won't be the one to wash the sheets this week.
i stand here at our little red door musing on all these possibilities, peel a little chip of paint off an indented panel and wonder if i'm the type of woman a man would cheat on. Not with- but on. it's morbid and ridiculous i know, but sometimes i stand here--knowing that you're upstairs in bed, smelling your stale unshowered smell, mixed with hastily-applied aftershave and downy--one sock still on your foot, the other barely hanging on like the socks of babies who kick them off until the ridiculously useless pieces of fabric trip and flop beneath their clumsy feet. i know where you are--where you always are-curled up next to petey with his soft shedding fur and rampant breathing. i know this--but sometimes i just--i just.
i need to stop.
you left the light on for me. i'll walk up our creaky stairs and fumble my way past door frames and bedside tables and the cat beneath my blind feet. you're still here, your sock foot dangling over the side of the bed and the sheets awry from your fruitless attempts to kick petey out. you roll over and kiss me goodnight.
you didn't brush your teeth--i can taste the banana bread i made on your lips.
you smell like marlboro cigarettes--the red ones. i guess no one will be changing these sheets tomorrow."

bang bang bang

man on the subway rattlin' around for change singin' sam cook amongst the gum chewing, ear-plugged, stiff spine cartload of suits and their attache cases on the F train early this mornin'. a man standin next to me already had a small pool under his arm as he leaned against the silver pole gripping tightly while his sweat loosened his baby rattle clasp. somebody had pancakes this mornin. heapin stack of flapjacks with a slab or two of butter and god-forbid aunt jemima syrup. butter him up before he goes to work honey, you're not a fifties wife but baby feed your man.
jingle jangle, clinking up and down the man saddles through the subway car, meetin eyes of neighbors, strangers to everyone else, friends to him. "a change is gonna come" he sings as his voice grows closer and less faint to my muffled eardrums. he goes into a verse that i've never heard before, one of those verses that you skip over like in hymnals, only singin 1,2,5 amen. a man waves a dollar his way as his voice carries him past, kind, raspy, worn and cold. he's still singin' "a change gonna come" he's on his own verse now. 2nd Avenue stop. a group of suits and sleek boots rise as a unit and hastily canter out of the car.
this time he speaks 'change gonna come' 'change gonna come' 'be thankful you alive today and you have one more chance to get it right. be thankful for that and jus smile. jus smile...it won't mess up yer hair' i hid my smirk behind my coffee, smiling only at reflections meeting my gaze in the dark window. West 4 street. Excuse me. thank you. whispered apologies that need not be said. another chance today.
_________________

heard gunshots reverberatin' outside my window tonight. one two three. breath. hand on the trigger. bustle up that jolt of courage. FOUR. i undress in my lukewarm room and can feel every potential splinter in the scuffed hardwood underneath my feet as the gunshots hit a bull's eye directly into my eardrum and stay there, echoing. i barely have my pajamas on when FOUR rings out and i cover my eyes and stay. wait. wait.wait. i'm not unsafe. i don't feel unsafe.
someone just died.
the wind blows swiftly in the trees outside my window carrying with it the sounds of screen doors creaking open only to slam shut and the revs of engine motors barreling down my street, bee-lining with no regard to any warm body standing in the way. i don't know why i cover my eyes when i hear the familiar shots. i shouldn't be surprised anymore. i can go to sleep tonight safe in my nook, underneath my covers, dreaming of stars and fields and christmas and the warm bear hugs of friends and the enveloping arms of laughter.
it's raining outside now. and tomorrow's a new day.
'change gonna come'

we wash our mouths out daily

damn writer's block.
i don't think it's really writer's block as much as it is the case that i use the backspace far too often in my writing. that, or i feel like i have nothing to write about. some days i feel like crying. right now i do, and i don't know why. have i hit menopause prematurely? is it because my allergies are taking over my body and forcing it to revolt? is it because i ate 5 cookies today and indian food and am utterly disgusted right now? blah blah blah goes the little voice that sits above my right ear and whispers hissing noises that trail into the darkest corners of my mind and resonate within the cavities of my chest. i woke up with the worst case of halitosis sluggishly seeping out of my mouth, turning my tongue greyish yellow because of all the rotting inside. and yes,, i ate cookies for breakfast lunch and dinner. but maybe the stench, this languid seeping sewage inside my mouth goes deeper than just the last bits of cookie lingering in my teeth. maybe it's because i still listen to the lies of satan. maybe it's because i envy people on the subway who hold hands or sneak kisses to one another. maybe it's the green jealousy that seeps up from the tar pits in my organs and spews out into my mouth. maybe this stench is from the fact that i worry too much about never getting married, or never being loved, or being fat, or never feeling at right with my body or never measuring up to who i want to be or dfjkljlkj;, just all of these things that are churning and gurgling inside of me that i suppress with ever smile and absent conversation when really all i want to say is---WHAT AM I DOING? ugh, man, Lord. it's at these times when we don't brush our teeth that we realize all of the refuse that sin has built up in our flesh. i don't know why i say 'our' maybe it makes me fee better. self conscious again. listening to the lies again. how desperately i need God, it's indescribable, really, the stench that emanates from my body. i want to scrub it off, scale it off, shed the pounds of grease and filth. not now not now. my muscles are tensing up inside of me as i cling to my burden--why do i do this? it's my ball and chain and i've grown accustomed to the weight, the sick little indulgence of pain, of chastising myself for this that, for looking one way, talking like so, eating this and that, living inside this white picket fence of society---and i'm fucking sick of it. i imagine all of this, it's the ball and chain that i have the key to, slipped stealthily inside my mouth, behind my tongue with it's coppery taste settling inside my mouth. i'm free. i'm free. i'm free. praise God. and yet i don't dance, i don't jump, i cry, and smile out of the corners of my mouth, raw from washing, and i rest.

and tomorrow i will wake up. and still be alive. alive and not existing. but beyond existing, walking without ball and chain, breathing free from pestilence and shame. walking, lightly, powerfully. loved and free.

Nostalgia

i love these old pictures. i hope they make you laugh.
i shall write more soon

i hate the word succulent

it sounds like wet play dough.
and wet play dough is not succulent, trust me, i've tried it.

i'm a list maker. my life operates around lists. my goal in life is to kill the list--make one and take it out, putting the most mundane, detailed tasks on it and jotting down things i've already done just to have the pleasure of crossing them off. and sometimes i hate lists. lists of things i'm afraid of. lists of things that i think are true about me. lists of people i've loved or had crushes on. lists of the opportunities i've missed. lists of the things that i would say to a person that i met eyes with if i'd only had the courage to say hello. lists of the things that i would change out myself. lists about my future. lists of dreams of hopes, of realities. these are the lists that i don't necessarily look forward to crossing off because i'm too afraid to make them. so we'll start out by checking a box off of the 'things i'm afraid of' list and make a list, a public list about all the things that i dream about and in my own little world, in my little nook, these are the things that i day dream about, however mundane, and stupid and inconsequential--these are the things of my dreams.

1. to go to montana
2. to own a little coffee shop in new york with a porch adn chipped paint and a red door. to make my grandad's homeade potato bread and invent drinks with espresso and foam milk all day long.
3. to meet my husband in my coffee shop.
4. to actually watch star wars adn not hate it.
5. to be a part of a theater company who are my family
6. to perform things that matter, and push the envelope, not because it's inappropriate, but because plays are the messy, incongruous thoughts that go on inside everyone's head that they're too afraid to speak
7. to learn how to do latte art
8. for someone to figure out how many freckles i have and what constellations are in them
9. to learn how to rock climb--really
10. to have a husband who is the perfect combination of a lumberjack, peter pan and the cs lewis all wrapped up into one. who smells like bonfires and wears plaid and has a scruffy beard and is burly but not a douchebag.
11. to eat grilled cheese and tomato soup every sunday night for the rest of my life.
12. to learn how to speak fluent french and go to france and have un cafe and all the nasty kinds of cheeses at a hole in the wall restaurant.
13. to be a wine connoisseur
14. to have a shiba inu named petey that looks like a fox and a calico cat that kneads my stomach before going to bed right beside me
15. to have a house that smells like cinnamon and bonfires instead of baby throw up and cat pee
16. to never have more than i need and learn how to throw away crap
17. to parasail and scuba dive on a reef and get the crap scared out of me by eels and sharks
18. to have kids who shoot bows and arrows and take them on fishing trips like my dad took me and my sister
19. to start eating pb&j sandwiches in cookie-cutter shapes during holidays, just for fun and save the crust
20. to meet someone who my kids can someday call aunt... without her actually being their aunt
21. to have tropical fish and name them
22. to write a book, not just to write one, but because i believe in what i'm saying and because it needs to be said--i still haven't figured out what that is
23. to learn how to cook frou frou things like salmon and cobbler and to actually be able to make my own recipes
24. to have a husband who likes to go on adventures and knows i'll kick his ass if he'd rather stay home and melt his butt into the couch
25. to NEVER have a house where i have to mulch, but plant wildflowers everywhere
26. to learn how to crack an egg with just one hand
27. to tell those that i really do love that i love and appreciate them and not take them for granted
28. to never straighten my hair again (this is a hopeful)
29. to roll down more hills and get bruises and scratches
30. to laugh more often and surround myself with those people who don't just make me laugh, but make me fall to the ground holding my sides, gasping for air and wetting my pants. those moments really are to die for
31. to know with confidence that i am here for a reason. to know God in all his delight and to know joy. constant, hot, radiating joy.--this was added because although a 'dream', im praying to God it's my reality.

*thanks margaret becker (author extraordinaire) for inspiring this list

my shoulder hurts something fierce

i haven't written in a while. it's not that i'm not inspired to write--i write in my head all the time when i'm in the subway or walking down the street or cooking pasta in my little abode, it's just when it comes to writing things down, i get all critical like nothing is good enough...for a blog. i'm stupid, it's ok.

today i made an omelet and almost became a strict vegetarian because i saw something i've never seen before in y cracked egg: twins. yes twins. i was trying to be quiet an d not wake christy with my cooking frenzy and i cracked open one of the little brown eggs into my skillet only to see two yokes attached together instead of just one. and for some reason attaching the word "twins" to it made me not want to eat it. i felt like i was commiting some sort of crime by eating twin yokes, so i just cracked another egg on top, grabbed a fork and smushed those suckers around the already sizzling skillet.

heartless, i know.

i had a series of revelations today. it was one of those things where you start laughing outloud by yourself because you realize how rediculous somethings in the world are and you have no idea why they are the way they are and people around you think you're crazy.

cast of revelations (in order of appearance)
1. men and women stil subconsciously segregate themselves on the subway because to some women, men are sketchy. thus making me laugh with strangers when an old woman won't sit down to a young man but makes christy scoot over to make a new tight spot for her. young man and i laugh at her. conclusion: laughing with strangers is fun, and also at them, but in a nice, unassuming way.
2. my friend justin clark is right when he says that crunchy leaves are the best noises ever. i constantly go out of my way to crush an extra-crunchy one. it's ever so satisfying.
3. ok dentyne ice ads. picture this--girl and guy making out in the grass, the slogan is to share the wealth or the experience or something super cliche like that, however in said picture of make out, the dude's arm is underneath the girls shoulder and i'm thinking. there has to be some more cmfortable way to make out. i mean, his arm is going to either get crushed, or it's going to fall asleep and he's going to be shaking it out or trying to get it to wake up and still be making out, because the guy won't want to sacrifice prime lip-locking time to get his crushed arm to wake up. conclusion: i really don't want dentyne ice anyways because the girl that was making out with the dentyne ice dude didn't look all that intrigued/blown away by the minty ice flavor--hence the reason her face looks like those old church women who pucker up and blow you kisses when you're 3 and they have old women powder-smell breath. gross.
4. why do you say bless you when someone sneezes? also, many people don't say bless you, they say bleshhew. i laughed at a man after i said bless you to him today and i was like, what if i just went up to him, if he didn't sneeze and said 'bless you' he would think i was crazy or weird or some modern day mother teresa right? conclusion: sneezes must have a holy/saintly magic in them that makes you want to bless people.
5. listening to old people at starbucks talk about the internet and insoles is the most hilarious conversation i've ever heard. conclusion: i need to be fabulous and hate technology in 40 years and buy insoles and forget where i put them.

in the next week or so, i'll write some more, some creative, some drivel, something just to write.
it's raining tonight, and it's lulling me to sleep, so i'll go now.

today's goal: to be

i just dropped my glasses in the toilet.

happiness is a choice isn't it? that's what i keep telling myself even though in my head i'm cursing up a storm. over glasses. really, jessika? really now.
lately i've been thinking about optimism and pessimism. i mean, i can never really remember a time when i wasn't the glass half empty kid. and i don't know why. what happened during my kid years that turned me into this doubtful, worrisome, cynical person? it's a choice. i think. i pray it's a choice. my friend chase says that i'm a 'realist' which is really a nice way of saying pessimist, it makes us (at least me) feel better. and the thing is, while i'm not a disney princess who enjoys sprinkles and rainbows, i can be happy. but even more than that, even more than the fake happy that is crest smiles and puppies and bows and jauncy walking--i can be joyful. joy. it's otherworldly and that makes it so much more desirable. and i know that happiness--theres a choice, but joy--thats tangible. i may not have the senses to feel it now, but it exists in that sixth mysterious sense--that's where you can experience it fully-touch,taste,feel,hear, smell--it's all those plus something i can't describe.
i crave that.

today i went outside without make-up on. and to many people, no big deal. they do that every day. not me. i'm not a high-maintenance gal, but i have this image of myself without makeup that is etched in my mind. a face without makeup is for me, my family and my pillow only. but today, christy said let's go, and i went. slipped on some rainboots, and left the house. i mean, i didn't have my contacts in either so if anyone gave me 'what the heck is that girl doing emerging from the house without makeup look' then i paid no mind to them, because unless they stared into my eyes 2 feet away from my face, they were justu another color-running blob in my field of vision. nice cop-out huh?

i have so much more to write that i've been thinking about, but it's late and i should be in bed 2 hours ago. i'm scared, i'm confused a lot, but somewhere deep down, buried there's a hope and a knowledge that everything's going to be ok, going to be beautiful.

eavesdropping over your shoulder

i went to the tea lounge again today. ever time i go in there i feel like i'm somewhere safe, and cozy and homey. I almost fell asleep there today but i got scared of looking like an idiot and people laughing at me. right now i'm reading perelandra (from christy's loverly library) by c.s.lewis--it's delicious, except now i want to read that instead of actually doing my reading for school. oh well, i'll just train myself to be able to do both, i mean, it's possible. at the tea lounge today, i settled into this plush armchair on top of a stained oriental rug and just started writing. maybe because it was so cozy in there, or my head was in the clouds, or my body was so relaxed by my coffee that i slipped down into the crevices of my armchair and started writing ridiculousness, but i was inspired in a weird way. so here are the thoughts of a girl who wants to be wendybird, sitting, dreaming in a little coffee shop on the corner of court and douglass:

i have all these little writings an ramblings and earlier this summer i was going to write about moments in people's lives--just snapshots of tics and idiosyncrasies that show something deeper underneath. it's like all these moments in the human journey to find something, some meaning, some love, some purpose. i was brushing my teeth this morning and the idea just came to me to write a book of moments--from the most mundane and odd to the most beautiful and big ideas that are broiling underneath that ultimately give way to all the existences of all these people.
i had a book when i was little called "outside-in" where you see how people look on the outside and then lift a flap and see all their insides and muscles and things that hold them together but are concealed from the outside. i was just thinking about that idea combined with writing.
all of us, like it or not, are made up of moments that give way to experiences which birth truths and eventually make us into who we are. we all have those defining moments when something clicks or pushes you over the edge to act or make a decision or think a certain way...and what if i could get those, observe those and put them down into moments. usually when we look back on moments where we made up our minds about something or started to believe something--it was small at first and unmemorable to people passing by or observing us. what moments are in a certain person's life that are key?--but not cliche--i mean of course the moment when you realize you're in love with someone or the moment you make up your mind about a certain person or group of people--the moment when you decide what beauty is and whether you encompass it or not. i don't know...the interesting thing about all of these moments is that they don't just happen once but have the potential to be re-experienced and in turn change you again. and all these moments layer and layer and layer on top of each other until you're old and wrinkled and all you have are these layers of moments that made up your life. it's beautiful, really.
i sound stoned"

hopeless romantic that i am

this here is a little song that i've rediscovered recently by the lovely rosie thomas (and friend sufjan stevens)

Say Hello

If I find him, if I just follow
Would he hold me and never let me go
Would he let me borrow his old winter coat
I don't know
I don't know
If I see her standing there alone
At the train station three stops from her home
I have half a mind to say what I'm thinking anyway
But, I don't know
I don't know
There's an airplane in the sky
With a banner right behind
Loneliness is just a crime
Look each other in the eye
And say hello
Oh oh oh oh
And say hello
Oh oh oh oh oh

Hey there, how you doing?

Hi, my name's Mary!

sleep don't weep

i keep erasing everything i write. although it is far from good, it's something and in my mind, unworthy to be read or even exist in this weird little blogosphere that houses all my ramblings and nonsense.
The other day i was sitting on the F train, which i must admit, is not nearly as bright and lively as the old 2 train, partly because the seats are crammed against one another and an awful orange light pervades the entire car, because the seats area ll painted a mandarin orange circa suburban 1972. Anyways, i was sitting crammed in my little corner, knocking knees with the stranger diagonally from me when out of the corner of my eye i spy a man that i immediately pen as a guido. unbottened shirt, gold chains, pressed pants, cabbie hat, slicked hair. guido. and i'm thinking to myself, what is that guy up to,just don't look at him, he's all about the ladies, he just wants to make eye contact with the next chick that comes his way. and then the guy gets bored. he gets bored and starts pulling receipts outta his pocket, all folded and crumpled and he takes each one and smoothes it out, irons out al the creases and folds over his knee and begins to make a paper airplane. at first i can't believe this guy is doing this. he's like 50 and making paper airplanes outta reciepts on the subway. he folds, meticulously creases, folds again and sets his finished work on the empty seat beside him. reaches in his pocket, pulls out another faded receipt, and does the same thing. he repeats this fro four or five reciepts and i'm entranced. this man's body is doing something that seems so unnatural--something that first-graders do when they're bored, and as weird as it was, it was so beautiful and so, surprisingly refreshing how people can surprise you again and again without doing anything, by just being. and then i though, i would like to have one of those little paper airplanes, but my nerves got the best of me and i got out of the train empty-handed.

you know how people, when they get married have people throw rice or blow bubbles or release birds or something? well, at my wedding, i think people should fly little paper airplanes. for some reason, it seems unbelievably fitting, and a little absurd, but i like it.

insomnia's kicking in, i should probably turn in for the night before more absurd rambling takes over

something new

oh bid me well goodnight. i have found a corner of dust and secrets to call my own, hollowed out from the damp earth under boards rotten and worn being too long trod upon. bid me i pray, goodnight, to burrow my head among the sandy-eyed beetles and ripple skinned grubs that wake with nights dark tide. i pray, kiss my eyelids soft and gently, let not my lashes linger on your lips, and if one strays, make a wish for my waking. i pray you as i hold your ankles tight and grip your strong calves planted firmly in your worn boots, pry my pulsing fingers from your safe warmth and bid me goodnight. tuck me in amongst the moths and and mossy blankets of the earth. i pray you, bid me goodnight and let me slumber with the cobwebs and musty dank where i belong, where i belong. look not upon my ashen puffy face in this veil of night, but let your roots grow deep, your boots mix deep into my borrow of dirt. for even though i bid you goodnight, i pray that my limp lichen soul becomes one with the deep that when light finds my corner, i may be a speck of soil upon your boot that walks across the earth and in your deep path, nurture flowers that arise and bloom.

but now darling, bid me well goodnight

nooks and crannies to hide my secret notes and crumpled gum wrappers

it's much cozier here now, is it not? i'd like to think so. cozy is such a languid word, it makes me want winter so badly--wearing my pumpkin hat and peeling layer upon layer of clothes off once i get inside to a warm, cozy, cider-smelling home.

these days i don't really know what to do with my time. i shouldn't waste it, but i'd waste it even more if i just sat here thinking about what to do rather than just doing whatever comes to mind. i'm afraid to go into a coffee shop on smith street. really, i swear i've walked by it at least 5 different times and told myself to go in and then my legs just keep up the bouncy pace that have propelled them thus far and i keep walking, looking back, wishing i had gone in, but being whip-lashed forward by the pace of my swift steps.

the neighborhood is lovely these days. i have to keep reminding myself to slow down when i'm walking, especially when i have nowhere to go and no one to be with. it's that simple--why can't i stop hurrying through life. i become antsy, agitated when i slow down and allow the gaze of strangers to see me slowly sauntering down the uneven sidewalks. walking past stoops of perching old women i smile gently and quickly look down if their gaze catches mine without returning a painted on smile. i'm afraid i'm being judged, a swift brush of my hair out of my face and a hurried jolt of energy into my step should reassure them that their unreturned looks meant nothing to me. but that's all a lie.

it's funny being up here pretty much alone. it's not lonely, it's a displaced, unsettling feeling that hooks deep down in my core and shakes me when i'm least expecting it. this life feels so much like plaster sometimes, so crumbly and replicative of something more alive, more urgent, hotter, lovelier, more enchanting. hrm. the things i think when i sit in my bed at night and just let my mind go. it's weird. i miss the promenade, maybe i'll saunter down there tomorrow and go out of my way to crunch the first leaves that have fallen from the trees along the little brownstone streets.

greasy fingerprints

every time that i write something on this dad-gum thing i always title it with whatever is coming into my head at the time. thats a lie. i don't. but tonight i did so let's let all that lie be a truth for just tonight.

i just want to molt. i have this skin-crinkling, itching, metamorphic desire to reach down and peel away all the ashy, sticky film that has accumulated on my body and soul in the last few years. or really since i was born. not that i can remember that far. by the way i think that it's silly if people say that they can remember the moment they were born, i think that they are lying. nobody can remember that. anyways. i do. i have this utterly inexplicable desire to just burst, to erupt--but in the most delicate, beautiful, chrysalis-exploding kind of way. but i don't know what im going to become or what's going to happen when i do burst out of my cocoon, when i shed this dirty, melted plastic from my body and wiggle out. and even worse, i don't know what the old skin looks like--sometimes i do--i can see the tendencies, the jealousy, the self-consciousness, the quick anger, the anvil on my chest, but other days it just blends in and decides to melt itself into some sort of invisible presence that clings to my body and can't be seen--it's almost parasitic.

i swear i'm not doing drugs in new york. it's just. i don't know. i have this picture of who i want to become in my head--of who i wish i was--who i can be. i still can't figure out if that's wrong. i mean, i want to be this radiating woman, content in who she is and how she is, braving every day with a vigor and a fire that's so ethereal and eternal and otherworldly--i want to be free. and yet, i hold myself back. i can't go outside without wearing a tanktop underneath my shirt. i have to have layers. kym tried to make me go without it and i couldn't. there is no way. and i don't know why. i can't do it. i can't bear to feel the fabric wrinkling and rubbing up against my skin. i can't feel protected if i don't have my under-armor on guarding whatever figure's underneath against the judgement of passerbys. i can't bear to look and see the indention of my belly button against my shirt or the fear of my less than toned mid-section making its way to be seen through dresses or sneaking into wrinkles when i sit down. this has to stop. i have to stop this nonsensical mindset and behavior. i keep asking myself--how does a woman become beautiful? is she born that way--some, yes and i find myself wanting--which is such a lie that satan puts in my head. does it come from a woman finding that she herself is a beauty, is indeed full of beauty and made from it and in that sense wshe can be nothing but beautiful? do beautiful women hold their heads high on a street next to woman with 20 inch weists and 6inch pumps and clinging dresses? yes. i think so. there is something to be seen in a woman who knows who she is and doesn't have to apply a dab of makeup or jewelry in order to be beautiful. not just to herself, but in radiation. does that make sense? maybe. i just don't know what this beauty is, i know the source, but for some reason it still eludes me.

give it up jessika. there are so may more beautiful and complex and lovely and delightful things to be thinking about than clothes, or weight, or male attention, or masks of beauty.

look at flowers, look at crooked baby teeth wandering around inside a child's gurgling mouth. look at old couples, look at exhausted mothers of three. look at the people who choose to walk slowly and see and smell everything around them. look at the women who sit on their stoop in their nightgowns. look for those that are sleeping in public. look at eyes, irises, pupils. there is beauty. there it is. even if just a momentary glimpse.

i've got to begin again

i just erased everything i had written. i promise i'll write tonight

lovelies, im coming home

lovely lovely day.
i'm sittin gin the floor of my peeling paint apartment, listening to the hum of the air conditioning and the sounds of cars yelling and exhaling in puffs of black soot as they make their way into manhattan. today i leave. more and more i figure out i have no idea where home is anymore. i feel home here, but i feel home when im hugged by my friends and family back in nashville. more and more i'm beginning to realize that 'home' isn't at all the walls of family photos or the bedroom where all your stuffed animals still lay positioned to play, collecting dust bunnies and fading in the sunlight of an open window--home is really wherever you choose it to be. and i know it has more to do with people than place--weirdly enough. i'm ready to go back--just for a little while to the people back in nashville--to my best friends, my mom my dad and my sister, the faces i know, i hug, the faces that i put up on my bulletin board to remind me of home. i miss coffee at a shop where i can actually sit and talk for hours and feel like i belong. i miss sitting up until midnight eating milkshakes at sonic. i miss going on random adventures with my sister. i miss bear hugs and people who say they're sorry when they bump into you even though they don't have to at all. i love new york. or really--i love brooklyn. manhattan--it's for the dogs. i really can't think clearly right now and so my writing is jumbled and i'm starting to be self-conscious of it. blech. i'll be home on thursday. i'll bear hug you if i see you. hold on tightly, please.

stealing toilet paper, mooching chocolate chip cookies and missing home

that title probably sums up this week of my life--or is about to sum it up. so i went down to the boardwalk again tonight to write and ended up writing 6 pages in my journal. i won't bore you all with the hodge-podge of ramblings that i scrawled down on 4 of those pages--but i'll let you have a peek at numbers 5 and 6. they are of course, hopelessly romantic as i seem to become when im sitting on the benches at 10pm looking out at the city. ugh. gross. i know. but just let me gush awhile. i daydream about my future way too much--but i kind of have to slip out from reality every now and then-but doesn't everyone. so here goes.

"A few nights ago I downloaded 'Both Sides Now' by Joni Mitchell. Partly because i just watched 'love actually' and i want to be like emma thompson and partly because it's a song i just cry to. is it bad that some nights i know- even look forward to turning out the lights, putting my headphones on, kicking the wrinkles and kinks out of my sheets and cry myself ot sleep? it's not a bad cry- but it does hurt a lot sometimes. I went to sleep dreaming of my house with the red door--in 15 years or so with wood floors underneath my bare feet and my husbands feet sticking to the floor as he gets up and creaks his way to the kitchen on saturday mornings to make waffles. my house smells of orange peels and cinnamon and week-old wildflowers. in the window lima beans are growing and a red kettle screeches in the kitchen where darjeeling tea is ready to be steeped. the light is peering through the parallel cracks in the blinds--beckoning my eyelids to flutter open as my dog petey jump onto the foot of my bed and with his wet nose, nuzzles my one uncovered foot off the bed. i have a wooden spice rack and a box full of recipes that my sister gave to me one year for christmas. my house is cozy with love, radiating and warm and the timer in the kitchen goes off for the french press. i pull my foot under the covers to hid and burrow down like a butterfly begging to stay in its cocoon. i hate moist noses and am also embarrassed by the sight of the chipping paint on my toenails. i pick it off when i'm anxious. petey's warm body sinks into the covers and curls into a little ball. he kicks and cycles in his sleep--like a little fox running from a hound. he snores too... thank God i didn't get a pug-he would've really caused a noise.
i hear billie holiday drifting in on the citrusy air from the kitchen but i roll over, curl up even tighter under my layers and layers of covers and slip away.

petey's gone, the window's open and the breeze is rustling my hair and whipping it over my eyes. i brush my loose, tangled hair away, close my eyes and feel the rich, lavish impression of a kiss on my eyelids and a bristle of scruff brush across my hand. the smell of cinnamon and smoke mingles with the fresh dry breeze and i lap it into my lungs.
i tell him i hate being tickled.
the waffles are ready."

today i left a letter to a friend on the subway
i have no idea who picked it up and who knows if anyone did
but i assume curiosity is common among all humans. i keep doubting myself like who i am-really at the core. and it hurts, but it's more of an ache than anything else. today my teacher told me that there is something cheap about me. something that i don't hold myself as expensive or with high worth. i was wearing a dress and he asked if i was pregnant and if i wasn't i needed to open up my heart, raise my chest and stick out. i kept telling myself 'i can't i can't i can't'. there comes a time in every female's life where she realizes the awkward but necessary and beautiful transition from little girl into woman. in my mind-i'm not a woman, i don't have it. the 'womanness' the beautiful natural and sometimes sensual quality that God inherently placed in every woman, or i don't know really. it is weird to stand in front of a classroom and know that someone can see right through you down into the very unseen fibers that hold you together. it's weird when a man that is 70 years old can see the deep dark sooty secrets that lie dormant at the bottom of my stomach and smoke up into my heart and are supressed by little girl awkwardness and chipmunk voices. i find that i'm learning more and more about myself more than anything else this summer. yes, of course i'm learning about acting, but more, much more, i'm learning about myself as a human being. about how hard it is to know who you are, about how much I need God to mold me because I sure as hell can't do it without falling completely apart into thousands of pieces.
i miss my mom

i haven't written in quite a long time and i can't figure out why. i have so much to say and not enough words to rightly say it.
In august I'm moving to New York and starting school at Atlantic Conservatory and don't get me wrong, I'm very excited but at the same time I am shaking in my boots. I'm scared of living ini a world that I never knew as my own and I'm afraid of finding people who understand me. I'm afraid that I don't know what I'm doing with my life and that I don't have enough faith to carry me through to find out day by day what plan is unfolding. but i do. i doubt, but i do and it's not of my own doing.
i miss my friends. bo came up here last week and it was fabulous. i don't think i ever realized until he came up that he's another one of my friends taht I can just be content being silent around--which is freeing but weird. we were walking around Times Square each observing the brigh lights and the odd idiosyncrasies of the city and neither one of us spoke to the other, we just were. kym and i do that. we can just be laying around tint he same room and not feel like we have to entertain each other.
ugh i feel like i'm writing fluff. all of this is surface stuff. there's something boiling in my bones making my muscles ache and pulse with something that makes me angry at times adn so full that i just want to open up and pour out whatever it is that is making my skin ache because it's pressing my pores and seeping out every hair follicle and freckle. A few nights ago i had my first taste of what adulthood friends are like adn it was beautiful. i went over to my friend katie's hous on the corner of 76th and park avenue. katie's 3 and graduated from the new england conservatory with a degree in vocal performance--she's like a mother hen, but in the best best way. she's got the soul of a 50 year old mom who would die for her kids and the heart and wisdom of a soulful ella-fitzgeraldesque jazz singer. you could just imagine her saying "mmm HONey child" absolutely fabulous. Melis is 30 but she has the soul of a 62year-old and the vitality of a fresh twentysomething. she's from turkey and i've never seen someone so warm, bursting with rays of love and compassion from the tips of her fingers down through every orface and appendage to her toes. we ordered take-out, drank a bottle of wine, tipsily laughed and mused and searched and questioned each other and loved each other--talking about things that 50 year old women talk about, the things that are in the very essence and heart of humanity, and at the heart of a woman who is growing from teh awkward transitioning state of girl to woman. we stayed up til 4 laughing and fallling down and doubling over, losing our short term memory for brief hours and talking about love and life. it was beautifully joyful to be up here for only 8 weeks and be able to have a deeper-than-surface bond with two women who don't necessarily believe everything the same as i do, but love and know love with a fervor that is unmatchable. i never realized until i came up here how desperately in need of God i am. really--bread of life? it's true. and starving hurts. i find Him everywhere-from the rocky bay of brooklyn to the eyes of children on the subway giggling to the people who bum cigarettes and start conversations to the women that i've grown to call friends. He's everywhere-in everything, it just takes noticing. i'm scared, but this life is sure to be beautiful if i follow.

don't worry mom, i spent the night.

untitled

just like all the modern art in the MET that chase misenheimer hates this post is going to be called untitled.
because i can.
today was a weird day. want to know why? well here we go.
i woke up too earlly today and decided to look like a lumberjack and wear a plaid shirt and not wash my hair and roll up my shorts and go into manhattan for practice. during rehearsal i just spent the time talking to my partner and becoming more of a listener. we didn't really do much rehearsal. we just talked. about life. and then i felt myself getting older because i was sitting across the room from her and begging her to come out of her shell and let other people see her for who she is because she's awesome and intense and quirky and smartass on the inside but she doesn't let anyone see that. and i felt like my mom because i felt myself saying things, giving advice that my mom would give--which isn't bad. it just made me realize that i'm growing up.

i came back home and lint-rolled my carpet. yes. lint-rolled. the entire floor. i don't have a vacuum so i spent my time tearing off strips of a scotch lint-roller that my mom sent me in the mail for some reason and i thought it was worthless--apparently not. bo knox should be very happy that he won't have to sleep on a carpet that has become a reservation for tiny hair ball clusters. when i spent over an hour lint-rolling i noticed that the world is much different when you put yourself in a position to look at things from a different perspective, even when it's just the corners of a room or the pieces of frosted flakes in your carpet. it's like a whole different world and things stick out that you would've never known if you hadn't put yourself in a position to see them. then i thought how crazy my neighbors across the way looking in through my window would think i was if they saw me spending an hour on my hands and knees lint-rolling my carpet. they probably think i'm like Monk or something.

i went on a walk today and just kept on walking. past atlantic. past lover's lane. past montague street. past churches and houses and shops and blocks and trees and subway stations. i found myself at a smoothie store no bigger than a cubbyhole where i had visited during my first few weeks here. smoothies here are expensive and not nearly as good and icy as smoothie king. here they're just organic. i saw an old couple holding hands and wanted to take a picture of them but i was afraid the click of my camera would be heard and they would turn around and demand that i destroy my film. i don't know why. i also saw a pile of clothes and high heels discarded and disheveled by a doorway and i wanted to take a picture but i was embarassed. imagine that. embarassed to take a picture. yes, but moreso embarrassed to look like a tourist. the only picture i took of was a feather, very stealthily on the way home.

i regretted walking the 15 blocks to i don't know where. but i liked exploring. i need to have an explorers club where we all take pictures and have bikes with spokes and baskets and have homeade maps with X's to bury treasure in old crevices of abandoned buildings or under stoops of old lady's buildings off the corner of court street. i need to be a part of something, something big and full of love and abandon. i need to join a pack of adventurers. let me know if you see any looking for new members.

now or never kiddos

well tomorrow is the big day.
i'm actually auditioning for Atlantic Conservatory and I'm so excited but nervous at the same time.
i believe that i can do this and if it isn't supposed to happen, then i'm in for something else exciting, i have to know this and believe this--which is so hard so so so hard sometimes.
i have no idea what my life's journey is going to look like. tomorrow could change a lot of things, or it could change nothing and i'm excited both ways--i have to be you know?
by the way i have no idea what the heck i'm doing and i still feel like a 5 year old compared to so many people. it's so weired living up here where everyone looks at me and sees me as innocent--which i am, but they assume i'm naive, which i'm not. yesterday in class i was doing a scene where my teacher told me that this scene was like being drunk. and i told her i've never been drunk before. and then i turned red and pulled my dress up over my face. 5 years old? 5 years old, but it's okay. created an awkward moment for everyone, but it was hilarious annnnd super embarassing.
i cannot tell anyone how scared i am about my life, because i really need to be alive and in every way, in every single moment of my life i HAVE to live or being here is of no use you know? i listen to my ipod i brush people off i don't talk to people that i want to talk to or tell them the things that i want to tell them like i love you or i'm proud of you or i'm freaking pissed at you because i love you. and the thing is, my life's too short not to say these things. oh man oh man oh man--we freaking walk around in masks because a) we're afraid that we don't know who we are and this way is safer or b) we know who we are but are convinced that people don't want us as we are, so we mask it, we bend it, we change to "please" or at least become the image and facade of something that we assume is "pleasing" to others. ugh. i really don't want to wear a mask anymore. it's too much work, it's sticky and soon enoguh if i keep putting it on, it will form to me and i'll just easily assimilate into some cheap mask and costume that the world has made up so that we can "cope". please, coping? really? coping is for people who don't believe in themselves enough to actually live instead of exist. it's settling. it's safe and slightly painful but it's safer than the possibility of getting burned and ending up broke in a stranger's home. and even though im scared to end up that way, it's exhilarating, it's freeing, it's raw and stripped and adventurous. and i've got to believe my life's going to be an adventure if i let it instead of a series of endless, joyless days and nights that drudge on. i'm here. i'm here. i'm here. and there's a reason.

On the Boardwalk, or rather the Promenade

I wrote this in my journal while I was sitting by myself on a bench on the promenade by the water tonight. It's a lot easier for me to actually write than to type sometimes. Annnd I haven't written in a while, so here we go.

i just noticed that i've never actually dated any entries in here. maybe because i never wanted anyone to think of it as a diary and be nosy enough to read it.
the city looks a lot different-"a lot different"-what the heck is that? ok it looks really different when i take my glasses off. it's hazy and mysterious and sort of like how christmas tree lights are when you try to take a picture in front of a christmas tree-the picture turns out ok-faces in tact, but the lights never appear to be little contained bulbs of light. instead they run and drip and sneak across the picture in a trail of haze, of glazed, stained light. that's the city to me right now with my less than 20/20 vision. hazy, soft and without its harsh angles and the singularity of every rectangular window spitting its singular polygon of light into my mind's eye.
One of the most beautiful things without my glasses through are people. the couples sitting together on benches, one arm over the other--but i don't know whose arm. all of their shapes blurring and slipping together. and yet.
and yet when i hear their voices the haze disappears. their voices are pointed, direct, resonant and clear. it's as if their sounds are hitting the front of their teeth and tongue and flipped and molded into words and syllables that flow out of their mouths into a megaphone of air and into some direct current which flows down down down into my eardrums. i adore voice.
there is a blur of a man sitting caddy-cornered from me whose voice sounds like a sputtering flow of water from a hose-blubbering spatting, hitting kinks and stops and then rolling freely into the ground, splashing everyone with his sound. he talks of business in his russian accent.
i am sitting alone on this bench and i hope desperately that no creepster sits down beside me. and yet at the same time in the shmucky hopeless romantic corner of my mind i wish that someone maybe a few seats away was falling in love with me. its creepy and crazy and idealistic i know. and come to think of it, i actually don't think that i would want someone to fall in love with me that way-i mean how could they? they don't know me, i don't know them-for all i know i'm just this bookish redheaded elizabeth bennett wanna-be figment of their imagination that they've seen and imagined that i take old photographs and drink orange tea and eat macadamia nut cookies and like to read tom sawyer and can make a mean pumpkin pie with lots of nutmeg. all of which would be complete figments of their imagination that they've decided to takc on "the girl on the bench" who would not fit any of those dimensions at all.
so...don't fall in love with me on a park bench because i can't cook pumpkin pie. and i'll just not fall in love with the next bearded plaid-shirt-wearing laughing guy i see. fair? sure, fair.
sometimes, like right now i wish i had meg ryan's voice so that i could inwardly narrate all of this little visit to the promenade. well suck it meg ryan--you're like 50 and in my imagination you can narrate and i'll find my own Harry Burns. But Harry meets Jessika doesn't sound nearly as bouncy and upbeat as Harry met Sally. Harry met Jessika would probably end up in an awkward break up where Jessika would be the name of the awkward ex in the prequel to "When Harry Met Sally". I'm better off. Besides the named Harry reminds me of a stuffed bear.
I have seriously gone into Bridget Jones' Diary mode. My hand won't stop. Oh God. That was definitely a Bridget moment because i thought about writing 'Oh God' before i actually wrote it which means it's time to cap the pen and go home.
annd memorize a monologue for betsys class and analyze a scene and it's almost 10pm. heavens.
life is beautiful"

as you can see, the promenade makes me a ramblin hopeless romantic mushy mush mush. whatevs

I'm not scared...

Right now my life just is in the present. and I'm not scared. For some reason sitting here on this Saturday morning where my life could be a complete trainwreck because of me playing tug-of-war with God over control and plans and worries just isn't. there's no tug-of-war, no competition for control. just me standing in an open field just ready and moving forward. and there's this anxiety deep down that pulses inside me, but it's also an unknowingness, a sort of tingling suspense that just breathes life into me. but i have peace. I'm not scared for some reason. and i don't know why. I'm auditioning for Atlantic theatre school on July 11 and i have no idea what the hell i'm doing either if i do or don't get in. and for some reason that excites me but it doesn't scare me. i don't know why. for some reason in this city, i just feel extracted from everything i know and that i am just being, just alive in the present which is such a rushing sense of light and joy and aliveness that i am a human being but so much more than merely human. i met up with my cousin jason on thursday and he's 36, writing, acting and co-directing a pilot for FX and if the network picks it up it could be really great for him--really really great for him. and it's so cool just to sit down with someone who's almost double your age and ask them if they've got it all figured out yet and to hear them say no--but just enjoy it. i don't want to live my life trying to figure everything out--i need to learn how to bask in the mystery-how to experience it instead of figure it out or intellectualize it, you know? for some reason i have peace right now because for once in my life and hopefully for years to come i feel deep down in my heart and in my sinews and bones and everything that's inside me that i'm doiong something right--and it's not because of me or anything that i decided to do, it's just letting go. just letting go and not worrying and taking action and not giving into fear. because that's one of the hardest things to do is not give into fear. i swear that people blame all their worries and complaints on external things when it all comes down to the stripped away bare fear that stops us all in our tracks and leaves us pillaged and living merely human, settled, merely satisfying lives. i'm 20 years old and i'm not going to live that way for the rest of my life--be it 5 more years or 70 more years. i just refuse.

on a side note-1. i saw spring awakening 2. ashley has a stalker/lover 3. i have decided that i don't hate WALL.E 4. i am now a regular at starbucks and need to work at one but i don't have a freaking hat 5. i love watching babies on subways 6. i have survived 2 weeks without grocery shopping 7. when i am awkward i revert to playing with animals and will go looking for them even at a party
also, people should check out my friend Will's writing. it's fabulous.

i think i just love the word abide. i don't know why. it just kind of has this ring, this comfort to it. this wasn't the point of my post anyways.
So i had a long talk with mom last night and it was one of those that I probably should've journaled about because i know it's one of those conversatins that i'll be having with my children somedaya nd i think it's also one of those conversations tha informs the rest of your life. epic would be the word here. i think. no it is.
i always have these talks or moments where i just break down. it happened at college. it began happening senior year of highschool and it's happening now. i feel like when it happens i get so embarassed and so freed all at the same time. it comes down to the fact that i hate growing up. it's one thing that i can't do anything about, and i feel safe having control--and in my life right now, I need to just do. just be. and give up control to God. I need to stop living in this little world that I've created where I feel like I have to please everybody or that I'll never be good enough. that fear haunts me daily and it can't be remedied by someone telling me that I'm good enough or anything. I have to believe it for myself.
but then mom just said. it's not all about you. it's not. it really isn't. so who cares if i make a fool out of myself or if i live so that i'm drenched in joy and everyone thinks i'm crazy or if i put my all into pursuing him and have faith that he has something brilliant and joyful planned for me if i am faithful to give, to be open, to serve and move forwards. i was talking to my mom about being obedient--which is what i want to be because then it results in this beautiful strong connection, this heartstring between you and God and others. and it has this insumountable joy attached and i want that with every cell that's inside of me. thing is i don't know what to be obedient to. it's not like God sent me this checklist or whispered in my ear "hey jessika, i want you to do this and this and this--get to marking off the list" it's not like that. it's being open and available for every opportunity. it's being open for God to use you and flow through you and for you to just be an instrument, a bondservant to christ--which is inevitably delightful. so it's not about me thinking "what am i supposed to be obedient to. crap i don't know. i guess i'll just wait around" it's about taking steps and having faith that God will use you. Because it's not like you have to wait for God to do something or that anything you do will screw up his plans. please. wake up. he made the sun, i mean, really? you can't screw up his plans--you can just ignore them or choose not to be open. and then it's a missed opportunity to be used, to really FEEL joy and know God.
so. now, i need to be held accountable. i have to move forward and not just saying that i will. i have to not be concerned with how i look or talk, but just be a mirror and have peace. the ways of man guides his steps, but the lord directs his path. God, i hope in everything that i am that this is true.

Petahh Pan

Oh by the way, i will marry a guy that is a cross between peter pan and paul bunyan. yeah, i know. good luck finding him, right?

this is my essay that i have FINALIZED for my application into atlantic acting school. the prompt was to write about a character in fiction who has had influence on you and what that influence is. so here goes:
I FINISHED SOMETHING!

Once when I was young, I dreamt I could fly. In my dream I scrambled to the top of our saggy, worn-out den couch, spread out my scrawny arms, uncurled my clenched fists, closed my eyes to wish upon happy thoughts, and jumped. But instead of flopping onto a pile of pillows as I had done in countless games of make believe, in my dream I actually flew. With my scratchy pink nightgown, and arms spread out like a bird, I was Wendy Darling.
Having been raised on a steady diet of dusty, yellowed books and 2-D Disney animation, I was thoroughly acquainted with the enchanted characters that lived in fairy tales. Yet there was one story that continued to draw me back even after I had let go of nightlights and good-night kisses. In it lived a girl I believed to be real as a child and whose image I vividly remember even now. Her name was Wendy Darling and I flew with her once in a dream. Through the years she has had the ability to not only reflect parts of my own personality, but also impact many of my views, attitudes, and experiences in life.
Wendy Darling taught me how to grow up without becoming a grown-up. In J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, and in practically all fairy tales, grown-ups are those who have lost the enchantment. They have forgotten the sparkle of possibility and the longing to dream. Now they are held in a concrete world of obligations, societal rules and stoic masks. Grown-ups don’t embark on quests of adventure, where danger is welcomed and fear is brushed aside. Instead they dream up worlds of security and comfort. They try to please those around them by putting on corporate costumes and wearing alternating masks at home, at work, and at “play”. I will never be a grown-up, but I will always be growing up.
The day I turned eighteen, my father said it was time to start acting like a grown-up. He said if I wanted to be taken seriously and treated as an adult, I damn sure had to act like one. There I was, about to be pushed into the adult world where creased pants, button-down blouses and patent pumps threatened to take the place of my ruffled tutu, knee-high socks and scuffed-up shoes. With my feet slipping and my knees buckling, I was straddling the chasm between childhood innocence and the reality of adulthood. Life had given me an ultimatum: either enter the swift, practical and independent world of adulthood, or cling to childhood and long for a past which time only sustains in a memory.
But, I realized I will never have to choose—Wendy Darling didn’t. In Peter Pan, Wendy is pulled in one direction by the desire to remain in Neverland with its endless realm of imagination and childhood creativity. Forcing her in the opposite direction are Wendy’s parents and the unspoken laws of society which command her to grow up, move out of the nursery, stop her silly nonsensical dreams and become a lady. However, Wendy refuses to be torn between these two worlds. Unlike most children who relinquish their dreams as a right of passage into adulthood, Wendy ages but never lets go of her Neverland. She continues to believe in a world of radiating beauty, in a world of buoyant hope, and in a world of boundless imagination—in a world so many have lost and forgotten.
Because of Wendy Darling, I will never be one of those who have lost their hopes and forgotten their dreams. Inevitably, I will grow old; my skin will loosely sag from my brittle bones, my hair will glisten with emerging strands of grey and white, and my body will declare mutiny as it aches and wilts. But I will never allow my imagination, and the radiating life that dwells there, to die. Wendy Darling taught me growing up is inevitable, but glowing embers of unencumbered dreams, hopes and imaginings must be plucked from childhood and clasped tightly in adulthood to breathe fervent life into mere existence.

ps. dad your dialogue was changed to protect you for artistic purposes. HA. well "damn well" sounded more dramatic didn't it? it's what you meant anyways :)

uagh! i haven't written in such a long time, i wan to say that so much has happened--and it probably has, but in my mind i just forget a whole whole lot. i am really bad at deadlines. really i think i've found out i am. and it's not that i can meet them or don't wnat to meet them--i just have no consequence for meeting them. jeepers. this hurts writing this. like that sinking feeling deep down in your chest where your heart is, or where your parents tell you your heart is when you're a little kid and you're playing doctor and trying to find the heartbeat with that little plastic yellow and blue stethoscope. i can't even place it. but i missed another deadline. it was a personal deadline. and i had all intentions of meeting it and doing it, but i just...didn't. WHY. why why why why why? i have no idea. and then i beat myself up about it (haven't got fully to that point yet) and then i have to move forward. I HAVE TO move forward i have to keep telling myself this. i have to stop talking to myself and just let my body do it. because there's no reason not to. today ashley and i went down to the radio city music hall to see the red carpet for the tony's. ash loves it--it's like how the academy awards are to me. but the whole time we were down there i couldn't stop thinking how weird our culture is. we line p to see people get out of cars with black windows to walk on some red carpet. everyone that isn't nominated for an award folows this unspoken rule of wearing black and i actually heard people on the streets say "wouldn't that be nice. people screaming your name" maybe i think too much about this stuff. i mean yeah it's glamourous and all, but it really amounts to what? people feeling obligated to get dressed up to walk around with this mask of celebrity on. we stood next to a little girl who was about 8 and she was telling a little boy a story, then a limo pulls up and she just starts screaming. she yells and shouts and yells to her dad " i don't know who it is but it's a celebrity!!! you're a celebrity! you're famous!!" it was just kind of sad to me to see this little kid have so much feeling towards someone just because they were a celebrity. i don't know. it was weird. i was just watching the man who was telling the limos to pull up and where to park. it was such a big to do. this guy was a heavy-set guy in a tan suit and dress shoes wearing sunglasses at 7pm who thought way too much about his job and thought he was in the parking car mafia. the funniest thing was how super pissed off he got when this tour bus somehow managed to get through and was just trying to go down the street. he started yelling at the bus and no one knew what to do--it was what they would call a "situation". dude, just let the bus through, no big deal right? wrong. i swear after the bus finally went through this man was standing there with clenched fists dangling off of his arms; he was trying to disguise the fact that he felt threatened at his job and wanted to maintain this weird facade of intimidation in his tan suit and camel shoes and sunglasses. it's just funny.
funny funny people

oh ps. i think im starting a book about seconds in people's lives. it's like looking through a photo album of strangers and in the few ticks of a second it takes to actually take in a photograph--it tells a story of a life. i'm thinking of calling it Momentics. that sounds weird but i don't care

Today was a hard day

Yeah, today was hard, to say the leaset. I get frustrated when I'm writing this right now because so much of me just doesn't feel good enough. I know I deserve, deserve is the wrong word, I don't know what word is right so I'll take it. I deserve to be here just as much as anybody, but some part of me is just, so afraid. I was washing my face tonight and thinking about the drive to murfreesboro and how don't ever want to make that drive again, ever. But I HAVE to move forward. I HAVE to stop telling myself that I'm not good enough. I HAVE to stop being afraid. It's that simple. Moving forward takes actiona nd initiative. It just does and I have to DO.

ehch. today I presented something from the book the prophet by kahlil gibran in adler class. the book is all about the ideas, the BIG ideas that affect humanity and we had to choose one to present (get the book, read it, understand it by the way). so i went up there and i tried to give away the big idea. patrick my teacher stopped me and told me that i needed to use basically what i had, my experiences, my personal life. and i swear it was one of the most vulnerable but freeing experiences ive ever had. there was nothing but the present. and i said somethings that i couldn't believe that i opened my mouth and let people in to. i don't know--like the fact that i sleep next to the wall with a pillow beside me and a small corner of my old blanket draped across my side and lower back because i imagine that instead of a blanket there will someday be my husbands arm around me and i will feel beautiful. the fact that when i'm walking down the street i look in every shop window and mirror to make sure i look okay. to fix my hair. to keep up this illusion of trying to be "beautiful". the fact taht i have arm fat and i get disgusted by my stomach still and compare myself to girls who are half my size hoping that if i could only be like them then i would be beautiful. the truth that i am mortified when i wear a leotard leggings and a skirt to movement class and the teacher tells me to take off my skirt and then everyone can seel the places where my body curves or sticks out or my panty lines and my roll indentions. things like that. but the fact that i have to understand that beauty isn't about any of those things. the fact that beauty isn't something to be obtained--it is freely given and should be received. it is forever in action like "a garden always growing or a flock of angels always in flight". gibran says that beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. but we are life and we are the veil. we don't look each other in the eyes and exchange beauty. we hoarde it and de-sanctify it. we plasticize it. we turn beauty from something unique and ethereal into something whorish and simply tactile.

i'm going to stop because im just rambling. but i am so passionate about beauty. so very passionate. mm it radiates, it pulses, it just is so warm and i want to bask in it.
just think about beauty.
and look people in the eyes when you talk to them because you'll see something.

So Today

I got to see Phylicia Rashad talk. In other words--Clair Huxtable--Mrs. Cosby anyone? yeah that's the one. It was so cool- like inside the actor's studio but for my school and no stuffy james lipton who asks "what turns you on" and "how did you feel about your mother's rocky relationship with you step-father". james lipton is mr. potatohead. anyways--i swear this woman is one of those women who are just beautiful and at peace with themselves. there are types of people who glow and are beautiful because they know who they are, they speak and are mindful of their words, they are centered and just basically radiate. i hope that when i'm old i'll be able to be like that; it's just inspiring.
I'm memorizing Shakespeare right now and have a scene to present tomorrow from Twelfth Night. I'm stressed out because I have a scene partner who is nice and sweet but just doesn't have the drive to work and it's awkward. I swear I'm having to learn patience and self-control. I'm so glad I have Ashley here because I've discovered that when I get stressed, I get nervous and antsy and negative and then I beat myself up. She just sat me down and was like "ok, listen what's the worst that could happen? it'll be fine" and it will be.
i had to be a meerkat today. I don't think i did enough work or observation. you look at people around you and we're learning that so much in acting can be derived from nature. you can use mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, habits from nature to inform the creation of your character---instead of trying to conjure up feelings that will end up being fake and forced and playing a type or imitating and not being free to just do. it's fascinating-i'm learning a lot.

sorry this post was kind of generic. i'm tired and tomorrow i have to say this:

"Look, sir! Such a one I was this present! Is 't not well done? 'Tis engraved, sir; 'Twill endure wind and weather...Your lord does know my mind. I cannot love him. Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth, in voices well-divulged, free, learn'ed and valiant, and in dimension and shape of nature a gracious person. but yet i cannot love him. he might have took his answer long ago."

geez louise, my tongue and mind are having seizures.

Can you see him? I hope so.

A little something I wrote tonight about a man I saw on the subway; I hope you like it, but more importantly, I hope you can see him:

"Bigsby Rysdale frequented the subway stop at chambers street every morning at approximately 6:03am. He preferred caked not glazed donuts and enjoyed the occasional game of Parcheesi with Madge, his next door neighbor.

Every morning at 5:11 Bigsby hit the snooze button on his alarm clock. He counted 58 seconds I his head before rolling out of his tangled sheets and slipping his stiff small feet into cotton slippers. Even though Bigsby was 57 years old, he still laid his clothes out nightly for the next day as his mother had taught him to do more than 50 years before.
Of course, bigsby’s mother was now dead. He stole a box of recipes from her house before the lawyer came to appraise everything as Bigsby’s sister, Laine, had arranged. Every now and again, when he was feeling quite saggy and bland in his heart, Bigsby would take the box of recipes down from the top shelf in his closet and make his mother’s famous potatoes au gratin. They were still his childhood comfort—cheesy soft potatoes, sliced into thin starchy saucers, warm and slippery in his mouth, salty and chewy and somehow extraordinarily comforting…"

Holey Moley

I can't believe I haven't written since this past Monday--I just guess a lot has been going on. Sorry Mom for not updating :)

This week has flown by way too fast and yet at the same time, I am so exhausted--my ribs ache, my butt muscles hurt from moving like a giraffe and then like a hippo, I've read at least 2 books this week and have to read 3 or 4 more by the end of the next. A teacher almost made me cry; I've been pissed, I've been embarrassed, I've been growing--and it hurts, I've been restless (but not in a bad way), and I'm learning what beauty is.
So that's why I haven't had time to write. Plus I need to get at least 4 hours of sleep a night.

There's so much going through my mind right now that I have no idea of what to write about, so maybe I'll just tell you what I've seen this week. On Tuesday I went up to Spanish Harlem with Ashley to the museum mile where all the museums were free entry that day. Unfortunately, the museum "mile" is more like 10 so we only got to go to the city of New York Museum which was okay, I guess. We went up to the top floor where it was sweltering and everyone was fanning themselves with maps of the museum. The air was thick and because it was a museum it was musty and yellowed-smelling (do you know what I mean?). We saw some old dollhouses and then decided to leave. But the best thing about that trip wasn't the museum at all.
Outside on the pavement there were chalk drawings. Sidewalk chalk was given out freely and everyone was putting down what they had to say to the world. Kids were drawing stick figure portraits of their family, young and in love teenagers were etching their chalky names inside hearts on the street like someone might carve names into a tree. Older people were writing quotes, life lessons that they deemed worthy enough to pass on to the rest of the world. And I just looked. And walked. I should've written something, but I guess I didn't know what to say and didn't want to fill the pavement with some jumbled up quote that I just happened to have floating around in my mind. I should've though.

On the way back home I saw a man in the subway station that was doubled-over on the floor. I wanted to stop. I wanted to jump out of the spawning stream of people that was overflowing into the downtown platform. I wanted to put my hand on his back and ask him if he needed help. But I didn't. I guess the whole--you're in spanish harlem; you're 20 and female--he's a middle-aged man--fear stepped in the way. I don't ever have a lot of regrets in life. But that's something I do regret. I went down to the platform and these two kids my age were flinging their backpacks about with their caps tilted just slightly to the side--one was trying to explain to the other that up at the platform he had knocked down a man with his backpack; he was trying to justify it by the fact that the man should've gotten out of the way, it was an accident--no big deal.

but I knew that man was still up there doubled over on the floor and I did nothing.
In life you can't just stand by HOPING that someone will get up okay or that someone older, someone more inclined to help will stop by and help. You have to be that which someone is hoping for. Hope is a powerful thing--but if nothing is in action, hopes will just end up being thoughts selfishly stuck in independent minds and never taking on fruition.

it's weird, huh?
yep. but so beautiful.

Today, you need to laugh

I don't have a whole lot to say today. Class was good--the one class that I had. Ashley and I spent the last two hours tonight doing 3 point entrance scenes--basically knowing how to enter a room and have purpose. I have to read twelfth night and perform a scene next tuesday-wahookaboodle. jeez ive never done shakespeare before and so it will be quite interesting. my character teacher is AMAZING. she's this old little woman in her 70s with thick glasses and a certain life about her that says "I don't give a crap what you think about me. i know who i am and baby, i'm glowing. i know im old but thats not stopping me from doing what i want to do. you better live life on the edge of your seats" i had to act like a giraffe today. it was fun. i felt like i could get away with it like those kids who go around pretending they're dogs when they're 5--woofing and slobbering and climbing and only communicating in dog-language. it's pretty hilarious when you see a kid do that.

speaking of. here are some pictures of what nyc has done to me as a person.
personally, i feel that once in everyones life they need to pee their pants laughing. i hope it happens when you look at these.
this is how i looked when i came to this city. normal? by most standards.

slowly the city began to morph and shape me as i took on new personas.

new identities began to surface within me. i felt like i was turning into what would be the incredible hulk version of jessika erin doyel.

my appetite began to swell and i had an intense craving for lemonade and my double, triple and quadruple chins, my sidekicks began to emerge from my own flesh!

soon, i recruited a friend to my cause and she began to see my ways, to see the hulk in her and morph into her true being.

with the powers of earth, wind, fire and heart our bodies were molded and contorted to show the true beauty of earth and GAEA GODDESS OF EARTH!

soon, we became a force to be reckoned with. our largess spilled from our bellies on to the subways of new york city. our heroism rivaled that of skinny jean wearing peter parker and our appetite that of godzilla. we were goddesses among wom men? anyways we drank a lot of lemonade elixer and made youtube videos even better than BLUHD baby and screaming britney spears boy.

I forgot...

I forgot to write last night. Well, not really. I didn't forget--I think I chose not to because I couldn't think of anything interesting to say. That happens a lot with me.
It's sunday morning and a part of me wishes I was back home going to the church that I love with my family and then going to fido with my sister and rachael afterwards, sitting in an over-air-conditioned booth or next to the place by the window where my name is carved to people-watch and dub over people's conversations across the street. but im here. and it's an uncomfortable feeling to be here. i realize that im not bold enough, not yet sure, strong enough in so many ways. I'm scared to say what i believe anywhere because i'm afraid to offend then then not make friends. but this truth is at the core of me. its like this suppression that im doing for no reason besides the fact that im afraid of what people think of me.
so that's whats in my heart.
today i woke up and i could hear singing across the street from a church choir--it was one of the most beautiful things i've heard. the voices were all one together, rising and falling sort of like a tide and everyone sang so loudly and fully. funny. there's a lot that i want to write, but at the same time i have a habit of opening my mouth about anything and not mulling it over inside first to make sure i say what i think in the right words
blah. there are no right words.

i have to read a whole lotta today. but today will be good. im convinced. ill write more tonight

You don't even want to know what I ate today...

dinner: a can of chicken
salt and peppa
sort of cut apples and grapes
smushed up triscuits
mix up for a bowl of dry deliciousness? yeah, right.
Day 5.
Note: i skipped day four because it was utterly boring in nyc.
not really. I just was at school all day and watched LOST-which if you have never watched you can not ever talk to me. im mourning until february.

anyways, today was our first day off from school so ash and I took the full liberty of sleeping in until noon. little did we know that both of our parents were feverishly texting and calling us to make sure that we weren't dead because a crane fell in manhattan today. i swear i wouldn't know if anything happened--the rest of the world knows before people actually living near the situation do; maybe thats not entirely true, but I don't have CNN on all the time.
after we flipped on the tv to get a quick story about the crane form a very nervous news anchor, we decided that today we were going to get some business done and see the telectroscope--which is a sort of telescope that lets people in brooklyn see people in london in real time. we thought about drawing HUGE posterboard signs with messages on them and holding them in front of the telectoscope to see if people on the other side would respond. here's the website:http://www.tiscali.co.uk/telectroscope/

but we, being the horrible navigators that we are, only managed to make it to fulton street and then on to a huge crowded subway at 5pm to times square. let me tell you about subways passing through about 6 stops at 5pm. if you're claustrophobic-don't. if you have germ issues-don't. if you don't want somebody practically touching your butt and kneeing you in the back and breathing in your face or standing in someone's armpit-don't. ash and i don't necessarily like those things--but we did it. holding on to a greasy rail on the red line squashed up next to a man sitting down in a seat crouched over his tan leather bag and stealthily unwrapping gum and then spraying some sort of man perfume that smelled like fake flowers and cucumbers, he sat there just squnched up next to an asian woman who was most likely a fashion student of some sort. the man whose armpit ashley was nestled into was trying to prove his knowledgeability about new york as he explained to his friend that people were BOUND to get off at the next stop-Penn Station and he went on and on and on practically being a tour guide. Ashley and I almost got off a stop early to actually breathe, but we held it in and emerged in times square where even the sidewalk sparkles (im not kidding) and immediately squirted a quarter size of purel sanitizer all over our hands.
we got lost a little. thank goodness for verizon having a gps system in the phone--genius.

later this evening we saw a play that was being put on at Stella Adler (the school that I'm at) by the 1st year conservatory students called Dog sees God. it was good...and interesting. Going in, Ash and I thought it was going to be some sort of metaphorical thing--like most titles in nyc are--but no, it was the confessions of CB (charlie brown) in his teenage years. basically charlie gets depressed and falls in love with schroeder. sally is now a wiccan-still in love with schroeder. peppermint patty is a skank/mean girl. pig pen is a manwhore/douchebag/germaphobe, linus is a stoner, lucy is in a mental ward for burning of the little red head girls hair, marcy follows in pattis footsteps and is a psuedo-skank and schroeder was molested as a child and then is teased for being gay and then falls in love with charlie brown and then gets beat up by pig pen who goes crazy if people call him pig pen. pig pen apparently loves charlie brown and gets pissed when he finds out that schroeder and cb had a thing going. slams schroeders fingers in a piano and then schroeder gets so depressed that he can't play the piano anymore that he brings a gun to school and kills two kids and then himself. charlie still writes all this to his pen pal.
oh and snoopy eats that little yellow bird and is rabid and dies.

wow. charles schultz would be so proud. i just know it. his uplifting message of blockheads just lives on.
of course whoever wrote the play must've written it from the subtext evinced from the comics, i mean, obviously.

Antique book smells, the 3 train, one meal a day= profound self-discovery

Day 2? 3?
I am so bad at days, thank goodness I have a schedule to keep me on track and a clock to keep me on time.

Today was glorious. The classes today at school were much less awkward than the first day--now we at least had played the name game at least 30 times, so everyone knew to say names instead of "hey you" or awkwardly avoiding addressing anyone at all and smoothly playing it off as if they were talking to the whole group in large.

i did, however get the crap scared out of me today.

we were all sitting in a studio room, listening to ipods, talking about classes, waiting for the adler technique class to begin--just sitting on the floor socializing. our teacher walks in and looks around and takes us in and immediately says "what are you doing, why are you sitting on the floor, get chairs." we set up the room, not understanding why this man is so urgent in his request, confused if we are being reprimanded or simply taught. class begins.

"do you all understand why you're here. do you?" no one answers, but we get out our notebooks and pens.
"have any of you even done research on ms. adler and her history, her background, the history of this studio?" a girl in the front row half raises her hand. no one else dares to move.

"do you have any idea what this studio is? do you have any idea what goes on here? here, you are driven, you are here to learn in a classroom to experience to grow. acting is fun--but we're not here to hang out. you do not 'hang out' here. if you want to kick back and hang out you shouldn't be here. don't bother. just leave. do you know what i saw when i entered the room today? not professionalism, not an attitude of serious actors who want to grow who want to learn, who are serious about this. from now on, show me. do not let me enter the classroom without you being ready to learn. do you understand?" we all nodded, scared, enticed, drawn in to this man with his booming voice and presence that filled up every corner of the room and struck us as we sat, quiet in our chairs.

somehow, i know it will be the best class. this guys for real.

the rest of my day was amazing. ashley and i went down to the drama bookstore and got some books that we'll need for class--and trust me, it's just like college--they'll tell you what you need and then add about 100 dollars more in books/clothes/classes that you must have after you've paid the tuition. that's life, isn't it?

took the 2/3 subway back home and decided to explore the neighborhood. let me tell you--we totally lucked out in our little shoebox with peeling lead paint and leaky radiator. walking down the street, people were walking dogs, riding bikes, just strolling past brownstones on either side of the quiet street. we turned down montague street to explore our little grid and came upon an old bookstore with a sidewalk sale of books flooding the pavement in front of the store. i get awkward when i come to sidewalk sales becauase i think if i browse, someone will think im stealing--so we walk in. the place was the kind of place that had old postcards that wre yellowed, the aisles were so narrow that two people would have to hug to slip by one another; it was the kind where you pick up books just so you can smelled the musty, woody, old paper as you flip through the faded, torn pages of books like shuffling cards of old, bent worn out card decks. it was the smell that sticks in your memory, that nostalgia smell. we stayed in there, leafing through copies of plays and poetry until i finally settled upon an old 1940s edition of john donne's poetry. next we walked down the street to where ashley thought the water was--we were just two girls exploring the city.

it took our breath away. at the end of the brownstone-lined street there stood the city, glowing with its twinkling lights that were reflected across the water. soemthing was so movie-like, so perfect about that setting, about the picture of new york city silhouetted by frames of couples leaning over the fence railing, the man with his arm around the girls waist.

it was a picture that made me want to fall in love. not be in a relationship, but deeply, madly have someone to love. and i thought that was so beautiful.

we felt a little awkward walking down this little brick-walk area with no one but couples lining the way--but it was such a beautiful awkwardness--it was like you could feel their love radiating, it was just joy--these people were sharing something with us passers-by that they had no idea that they were sharing; and it was so beautiful. when ashley and i were walking back home i swear we both agreed that the only thing we wanted to do right then was grow up, find out leading men, get married, live in brooklyn and go down to that bridge with the person we loved. it's just that kind of place that's in all those movies where the bumbling girl goes just to think, to read and some guy comes up to her and asks her if she dropped a book that he found, she says no, but he gives her the book anyways. they stand there in the awkwardness of two bumbling single people amidst couples in perfect bliss and laugh. it's just a place for falling in love.

im way too much of a hopeless romantic, jeepers.

I am so awkward...

Day 2:
for the first time in my life i had dry mouth. not just dry, i need a sip of water, kind of dry mouth--but the kind of dry mouth where your mouth is a huge foam pit/sand dune and there's nothing i can do about it.
i was standing up in front of my first class today doing a monologue and it was the most terrifying thing thinking--what the heck am i doing here? what am i doing with my life? is my teacher going to think i suck? why am i doing the awkward dance? why is that kid not paying attention? why didn't i just stay home and go to school and get married and have kids and make slice and bake cookies?
but it wasn't that bad, i mean after saliva came back into my mouth and after the fact that i found myself laughing very loudly at inappropriate times and then making the situation twice as awkward by muttering under my breath "uhh.that was so awkward. im so sorry" and having people think that i'm the crazy laughing/dry mouth kid who talks to herself.

the things i learned on New York day trois:
1. murphys law happens--if a subway train CAN get stuck, it CAN and WILL get stuck--especially when you don't have an alternate route to the first day of class
2. i met our pothead elevator friend, lovingly named "the doob" and it turns out he's british and likes to awkwardly hit on desk workers
3. the twins from the matrix do exist--and i saw them in the subway, with matching chinstrap beards, shaved heads, bluetooth phones, bald heads and awkwardly matching leather shoes
4. if you try to explore staircases in old hotels and you don't think that it's a fire exit and that the alarm won't go off--it is a fire exit and the alarm WILL go off, forcing one to stealthily escape and pretend to take the elevator. see murphy's law
5. there are still newsies in new york who WILL scream at you to get a free paper

also, there is a kid in my class who, when asked to describe one thing on his wall at home, said he had an alien poster who was meditating, flipping the bird, and smoking a joint at the same time with the words "OMMMMM" written across the top. apparently he loves meditating. and pot-smoking aliens. that's classy art, my friends, classy art.

oh and i've never taken a rediculous ID picture, and i figured, now's the time to let loose, right? right

Brooklyn and Doobies and ear wax cleaners

New York New York!
Day 1:
I have decided to officially enter what my more technologically savvy friends know as the "blogosphere" and really write about all the crazy shenanigans that happen in my life (not that they happen regularly) instead of venting and writing philosophical ramblings. Please Jessika, it's time to stop being verbose--or not; we'll see.
At approximately 7:45pm I boarded a Boeing 747 with my one-way ticket in hand to New York City. I didn't cry. I didn't reminisce. But I swear I almost pooped my pants. And not just because I had just had a cup of coffee and two shots of espresso.
unnecessary, unladylike, sorry mom.
Anyways, I get on this plane with the rest of Group 6 thinking "oh yes! Maybe dad totally went all out and got business class!"
i was very wrong. very very wrong.
I ended up sitting next to a man who would pick ear wax out of his ear with his pinky; and granted we all have those times when our ears are just dying for a q-tip, but this man (and I watched him stealthily) just flicked it.
he flicked his earwax and im sitting next to him.
awesome, just awesome. of course what can i expect from the guy who has downloaded National Treasure 2 from Itunes on his Compaq and listens to mp3s on tape of "who moved my cheese"? I totally should've struck up a conversation with him.

So now I'm in Brooklyn Heights.
and living in a shoebox. I think the educational housing people lied to Ashley and I. Half of the building is hip and trendy with tangerine walls and andy warhol prints and our side has walls that are painted what ash and i agreed to be the color of baby spit up and have duct tape around the windows to keep the bugs out. But it's home. And I think it's the way it's supposed to be. Ashley and I start classes tomorrow and hopefully we won't be in movement classes where we have to be tulips or feel the emotion that a jello jiggler has when it is taken out of its mold.

ashley made a new australian neighbor (as in he lives here somewhere) who freely rolls joints in the elevator.
boy, are we in for a summer.