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Things that make me happy:

Jun. 30th, 2008 | 01:20 am

engrossing novels
Star Trek
helping someone
telephone pictionary
blowing zombies' heads off
baking cookies
beautiful foam
deviantART faves
stuffed animals
power tools
driving with the windows down
fruit smoothies
new lingerie
cutting my hair
hot grande vanilla breve green tea lattes
wind chimes
horseback riding
80s and 90s music
animated films
depressing foreign films
craft stores
facing bills
hot tea with milk

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Feb. 27th, 2007 | 08:49 pm


("i. drowned. michael. in the melissa.")

(i am michael. i am treading water in a lake. melissa's father is next to me.
he puts his hand on my face and pushes down.
i struggle.
everything is black.
i can hear him...)

(i am underwater. nearby, merfolk with glowing, rotating balls of light for heads confer.
"he is a traitor! he must pay the price."
a merman is dragged before them, and they administer capital punishment. his body twitches and melts into water as his head slowly fades away.)

(the car is passing a lake.)

(michael is driving.
melissa's father is singing to himself.
"melissa and jim are pumpkin people! they nod their pumpkin heads.")

(outside, a forest.)

(maribel and jim are sitting in a treehouse, trying to outdo each other at making faces. they're not contorting their real faces, but summoning grotesque and terrifying illusions. jim gives me a real, toothy grin, and the illusory treehouse is gone. maribel is in the front passenger seat of a car, and jim is sitting next to his father in the back.)

(the door swings closed behind her with a thud of finality. maribel laughs. i walk up...)

(maribel is at the top of the stairs, laughing like a maniac. i'm filled with foreboding. beneath, melissa slams the secret door with a look of triumph that changes to horror. she begins to scream: "nooo--!" i can open the door for her, but granddad is at the foot of the stairs. i don't move.)

(i sob apologies and run for the stairs. about halfway up i realize melissa has stopped following. she stares over the railing into empty darkness. "i see a light. he looks sad, like he's in pain." she turns back down the stairs. at the bottom, she turns out of sight, but i'm not worried; i know exactly how to get where she is. soon she's below me, i watch her circle to the normal doorway of the secret-door room.)

("the bottom floor is ours! get. out!")

("we were just exploring. we didn't mean to intrude.")

(through the door, a sparkling christmas display: a moving santa figure, and a model train. melissa is transfixed. i see feet, and the foot of a bed. the train whistles. it's granddad's bed, and his feet on it. we're watching the train. suddenly, granddad is behind me with hands on hips. i've never seen him so violently angry. he yells: "what are you doing here?")

(amy wants a glass of milk before bed, so we go to the kitchen. she's wide awake. "let's go exploring!" she says. i let her choose each turn. we pass the room with a secret door--open now--that's invisible closed if you don't know exactly where to look, and the staircase that ends overlooking itself. amy/melissa descends a flight of stairs with an open door below.)

(my girlfriends and i are having a sleepover in my grandparents' old house. i love this house--it holds many odd rooms and passages, and i know them all. maribel and [girl] are sharing one upstairs room, i have another to myself. amy is alone downstairs. i could offer her the extra bed in my room, but i don't.)

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<3 my brother

Jan. 2nd, 2007 | 11:40 am

What did Seven die of?
Uh.... away mission.
Oh. Seven of Nine, dead of away mission.
Tags: ,

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Nov. 21st, 2006 | 02:43 pm
Emotion: accomplishedaccomplished

I\ learned\ to\ escape\ spaces\ today.

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A secret right before the end

Apr. 4th, 2006 | 02:37 am

Underwater, deaf and blind
Under such pressures you might find
A secret right before the end
That makes you want to breathe again


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Someone out there still believes

Mar. 21st, 2006 | 12:07 am

There’s a lighthouse in the harbor, shining faithfully,
Pouring its light out across the water for this sinking soul to see
That someone out there still believes in me


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I'm always dreaming, even when I'm awake; it is never finished.

Feb. 13th, 2006 | 05:34 am

That's The Last Unicorn again, but wouldn't you know, Porchia said it too. Durmiendo sueño lo que despierto sueño. Y mi soñar es continuo.

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But not at peace

Jan. 15th, 2006 | 06:58 pm

And that's the way I thought it would be
That's the way I always wanted it to be

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Circle of solidarity...

Nov. 18th, 2005 | 02:10 pm

... was really encouraging and I'm glad as many people as did came to stand together against intolerance.

BTW, I don't do these things because I'm liberal. I do them because they should be done. If that makes me liberal, so be it.

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Attempt no. 3

Nov. 14th, 2005 | 01:49 am

Writer's block. It strikes indiscriminately and without warning, driving the sane to madness and reducing the strong to piteous tears. It can nip promising writing careers in the bud, or doom students facing frightening term papers.

Yes, writer's block afflicts the mighty and meek alike, and I am no exception. As I sat down to begin my latest submission to Dr. Seydow's Advanced Composition class, my mind was awhirl with possibilities: illiteracy, the rigamarole of dating, and more--and, then, in a flash of disinspiration, they were gone. Every expoundable idea vanished and I was left gawking at a blank page like a first-grader trying to wrap her mind around the complications of forming sentences without having first grasped spelling or penmanship.

Faced with this catastrophic challenge, I immediately devised a plan to circumvent it. For hours I brainstormed and narrowed paper topics, whether I was at work, in other classes, or lying awake in bed. I made lists upon lists, asked near-strangers for suggestions, and read everything I could. I even fought with my friends in the hope of finding a subject that aroused my ire, but in vain.

After nights upon nights of tossing and turning, and at least one blown deadline, I realized I was truly in trouble. This was no simple case of procrastination gone haywire but full-blown writer's block. What was I to do?

The tricky thing about writer's block is that the harder you try to overcome it, the tighter its hold on you becomes. The more I tried to pin down an idea worth developing into an essay, the emptier my mind felt. Finally, I stopped trying. I slept, a luxury I'd been denying myself all too frequently, and went to the chapel to try the meditation known as walking the labyrinth. I watched the Masque's new musical, A Funny Thing Happened On the Way To the Forum, and in the cheerful company of the cast and crew got myself pleasantly drunk. I gave in to the myriad worries and responsibilities that had been distracting me all along, working and talking and crying through them until I was able to push them to the background where they should have been from the start. in every way I could think of, I banished the thought of the paper hanging over my head and enjoyed myself. And as a result, I finally came up with the solution I'd been searching for!

Perhaps others have written scathing criticisms of social issues, or exposes of on-campus scandals. People may think the topic I've settled on is trivial, though any student who's found himself in its unwavering clutches knows that's hardly so. Regardless, writer's block is a serious concern and one I'm pleased to be able to present to others who, someday, may be aided by the insights I've gained through my own difficulties. After all, who knows where it will strike next?

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