840

Well. It's late. It's 12:52 a.m., but this will post as being at 11:52 p.m. Why that is, I do not know. I just consumed 840 calories so I feel like going to sleep now really isn't an option. So obviously typing is the best thing to do--burns all those hard-to-target fat zones in my fingers. Right. I started to write a story tonight. The birth of a great novel, no doubt. It's about some girl named Eliza (I won't reveal her full name--can't have anyone stealing the rights to what is sure to be a bestseller, currently in its embryonic stages). The story begins with Eliza thinking about nervous break downs and heating up a frozen pizza. Genius, I know. I've been thinking about a lot of things and in some kind of burst of... something... I decided to write a story. But I'm not even sure that was my real reaction. In one of my favorite books the main character gets super confused and scared and whirl-winded and in reaction to all that lousy emotion, she just sits down and writes an idiotic story. I think I was trying too hard to be the character in that book. I don't know why. I like the character very much. And she has red hair--something I wanted all while growing up. But my hair is brown and my name is not Shannon and I'm not going to finish my story. It's been saved on my laptop with a half dozen or so other starts to different stories. So, what was the point really? I myself ate a frozen pizza (unfrozen at the time of consumption) while writing it and now the roof of my mouth is burned and peeling. Perhaps I was writing about Eliza so she could be me. But I don't even look like an Eliza. Fanny would be a better name, perhaps. Perhaps not.

My roommate put a poster of Johnny Depp on our wall today. Well, the wall by her bed. It's him off the cover of Rolling Stone magazine and my two roommates and I had a discussion about whether or not he waxed his chest. On the poster he has this button up shirt that is, incidentally, buttoned down to a point that approaches his navel. I'm looking at it now and feel fairly creeped out. Wondering whether some movie star waxes his chest is not something I do often and I can feel those 840 calories churning in a nausea-inducing kind of way. I suppose I should be thankful that he's not on the wall near my bed in all his hairless chested glory.

One of my roommates tighens the bolts (screws?) on the kitchen chairs every weekend because they come loose. That is an incredible detail. I like it. I kind of wish I did it. It's like white-washing your mailbox every Thursday morning or something. I would like to own a Jersey cow. I will name her Mailbox and white wash a letter from the Greek alpahbet on her every Tuesday afternoon. I feel like now is the time to make a disclaimer about my own apparent insanity, but the fact is that I find all of that rather delightful.

Don't know how to upload and download and loadload this, but...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wJ-VPqFzy0

I love this.

Poor Elinor

I'm not entirely sure why, but certain movies make me cry every time I watch them. Perhaps I should have prefaced such a statement with the following one: I cry easily. Not at the drop of a hat... but sort of. I'd like to be some tough leather-and-steel-tearless-woman-of-ice figure, but I'm not. I cry when I'm sad. I cry when I feel overwhelmed by injustice (I will not give an example of this, because it will illustrate just how sheltered and babied I am--not exactly something I want to showcase, if you know what I mean, andIthinkyoudo). I cry when I witness something especially brave or especially pathetic. I cry when something is really beautiful. So, the fact that I always cry during the same parts in certain movies isn't much of a shocker. You hear those stories about the 6'6, 400 lbs football player/ fire fighter/ heavy weight champ that broke into tears at his daughter's first step and you're all like wow-how-touching-because-it-is-so-rare-and-tender. My situation does not pack the oomph and pathos-inducing power that that does. That lengthy disclaimer aside--I always cry during "Little Women" (1994 version). When Beth dies, it gets me every time. I don't know that I shed any tears during "Sense and Sensibility" (Hugh Grant, etc), but it always leaves me feeling a little melancholy. Yes, Marianne marries "the right guy"--but you're always wondering if Willoughby hadn't been such a cur when he was younger and if he'd married Marianne instead of Col. Brandon, if they wouldn't have been happier. You know, "love is to burn, to be on fire"--all that stuff. And when what's-his-name, Edward finally comes to Elinor and tells her he loves her and he's not married and the whole wa-bam, but she still cries. That kills me. Because I'm glad that things work out, but she's still crying and I can't help but think, "well, thank heavens, Edward, you dolt. But man--that really hurt her and it still hurts." I don't know where I'm going with this. Probably nowhere, if I'm being honest. I didn't exactly have a plan. So, I'll probably just end without explanation and very abruptly.

"I could try to point a finger, but the glass points in my direction"

It's late. But I'm trying to think of something to write. I'm listening to some of Jennalise's music (I don't know how to spell her name). "We could be together. Like the shore and the sea." I can feel the air conditioning blowing down on my right arm. "I dream to hold you in my arms." Our apartment gets super warm. "Wide awake, to hold you in my arms." Sometimes the heat wakes me up. It's strange how you can sleep in a really warm place, but your body doesn't seem to feel it until your sleep becomes less deep and then suddenly you're awake and aware and you can't believe you ever slept through such a smothering temperature. "Reaching, never reaching solid ground." I can see a plaid shirt in my closet. "Hey, baptize my eyes." I actually made my bed this morning. "Both my hands are filled with guilt." There are two books of poetry sitting to my side. "My eyes are filled with filth." I like huge sunglasses. Big ones. Sunglasses that swallow up your face so even your eyebrows go into UV-protected hiding. "Hey, baptize my mind. For these seeds to give birth to life." And all you can see is your forehead, a pinch of a nose, and lips and chin. "Forgive me as I forgive the people that run away." I ate good salmon today and too many pumpkin chocolate-chip cookies. "Your love is, your love is, your love is strong." I wonder if my pores are exuding imperceptible pumpkin steam or something. "Invade my heart, invade this broken town." You know how sometimes people have a song or something that they feel describes them? What smell describes you? Describes me? The smell of soap, of rain, of pumpkin cookies and dirt and grass and Oregon beach and grapefruit and and and... I don't really know. "And I'm losing my cool at the end." I'm going to go to sleep. "I watch you from my terminal view." Sometimes at the end of the day, the veins on my hands kind of pop out. "You could stay a while longer. We could stay up and talk about last summer."

Thanks, Missy

Your warm whispers
Out of the dark they carry my heart
Your warm whispers
Into the dawn they carry me through
And I'm weeping warm honey and milk
That you stay surrounding me, surrounding me

Your warm whispers
Letting me drown in a pool of you
Your warm whispers
Keeping the noise from breaking through
And I'm weeping warm honey and milk
That you stay surrounding me, surrounding me
Yeah I'm weeping warm honey and milk that you
Stay surround me, surrounding me
Honey stay surrounding me

Thank you, Mr. Keating

"We do not read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race and the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, business, law, engineering--these are all noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love--these are what we stay alive for."

I'd like to dedicate that to the harbored parts of ourselves that are not disillusioned.

Sometimes I'm such a sap of an English major that I can hardly stand myself.