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20 October 2009 @ 09:53 pm

There's something rather awful about mailing a letter, one that I've glued and glittered all over so its own Mama Factory couldn't recognize her flat, lily-white envelope-baby. I had two decorated letters: a black typewriter overlaid with purple-pink stripes and Marilyn Monroe, with yellow chick borders that match the platinum wave of hair that threatens always to break over her "alabaster forehead" (sentimental novels, I thank you!). They looked so pretty and decorative on my windowpane, waiting patiently as I poured tight blue words onto thin paper.

It was a relief to walk out of the warm orange toy store today and greet the pale blue sky and grey buildings, just enough color bleached out of them to make them skeleton-interesting and somehow more real than the splashes of color and permanent smiles and made-in-China that I left behind me. Those letters quivered in my bag like puppies, the three of us on a quest to find a place that sold Overseas Stamps.

I think they were nervous but anticipatory. I was nervous and anxious. It's always easier for the one leaving than the one left behind, even if the former has nothing but the future and the latter has everything, especially the past. This is probably truer when applied to something that isn't words, glue, wishes and paper.

I finally found a little shop, squashed beside a place that sells organic yogurt and pornographic magazines, hidden by a hotdog stand with a rainbow umbrella. An Arab man sold me the stamps and his eyes were like quivering bowls of ink, his smile a scimitar that pursed into itself when I only wanted stamps and just two at that.

Then I kissed them ("mentally," as Jane Eyre explains to her Reader(Imarriedhim), "let it be understood. I did not [do anything crazy aloud except shove them into the mail-slot extra quick") and sent them on their way. On their quests to find specific princesses, strawberries, ghost girls and halloween candy.

Good for 'em, I say.
05 October 2009 @ 06:04 am

School has started!

...well, that is, it's been a month since.

I typed that down and then almost immediately, a voice said "DUH" right into my ear. Either I am very impatient with my own penchant for stating the obvious, or it's the sarcastic little ghost child who powders her face with my MAC eyeshadows because rouge doesn't have enough sparkly bits in it for her.

The ghost child doesn't exist, but it's a more interesting explanation. If someone gives me enough time, I could probably come up with a better one and it would involve dragons.

There's something about cold weather that tosses me just right. As I write this now, the sky is turning that particularly cold shade of blue-gold - it's a sharp and crisp divide of colors, like a regimental uniform with shining buttons. The trees look almost painted. My arms are cold because my desk is right next to the window, but my legs are warmwarmOW because the heater is right below the window. It's a nice place for a desk. I just finished an essay on it and now I'm sitting here, half looking up recipes for roast chicken, half dreaming.

It's funny now now that I have little to no time to do anything, I suddenly want to do it all - and what's more, I can. All of a sudden, I'm writing again, and drawing again and I actually have letters to post to people who will hopefully not turn pale at the sight of the address and shake their fists at the spring&summer slob.

I found a new job. It pays less than my old one, the hours are less flexible and it is only seasonal work but it has one great advantage over the other: I do not want to toss myself in the way of passing cars at the end of it. Also, I get 30% off on Hello Kitty items.

And I like my Hello Kitty.

There's always a bit of satisfaction when a silly childhood dream is fulfilled. I felt it when I finally got to ride An Actual Pony (and got off it feeling that I had wasted seven pining years of my life. They are smelly and bad-tempered and mean if you eat their apples) and I'm feeling it again now that I work in a TOY STORE.


I want to buy that dollhouse so badly I can't even begin to articulate.

There's a scent of holiday in the air too. The Mid-Autumn festival is coming soon. I'm going to the market today to buy myself some mooncakes. Since neither my boyfriend nor I will be able to be with our families, we are going to have my mooncakes with his thanksgiving dinner.


Mm. Mooncake. I want to get drunk and go out and look at the moon and sing old songs with the word 'moon' and/or 'yue' in them.
21 August 2009 @ 12:26 am

Sumer Is Icumen In - but I wish it were on its way out. I am not a summer-girl; I'm not a sweaty-melt piece of bronzing. Summer has always seemed to me like a girl who knows too well she's lovely. There's so much of her, long arms and legs pouring out of skimpy blue shorts and a white cloud of a blouse. Her hair burns and her smile is crocodile-beautiful. Oh, it's too overwhelming! I want to cry when I wake up sweating to see the bald boil of a blue sky.

There's nothing private about summer, nothing lonely or quiet. There's too much of everything: laughter and car noises, the sound of dogs barking and the thudfall of joggers' feet, thighs, breasts and bellies; summer is the time I simply stop. No writing, no dreaming; the only things I want to do are stand in a cold shower and/or live in a chilled watermelon.

And on the very earthiest level - the bugs! (They deserves more exclamation points: !!!!)

Ah, well -

Sing cuccu nu. Sing cuccu.
Sing cuccu. Sing cuccu nu!

I have moved house. Now instead of a darling little room that hugged me with golden arms, I have a cold moon-shell. It's very big and I'm slowly filling it up with things and more-than-things. I hope it likes me one day.
27 April 2009 @ 03:15 pm

Yesterday, my friend and I went out into the night with the intention of finding alcohol that does not cost too much and does not taste too much like alcohol. We were supposed to have gone out on Friday, when the darkness would have been swimming with orange lights and random beats and people in twos and threes searching, but unfortunately, we both appear young enough to make an ID check necessary and someone (re: me, I, unfortunate) neglected to bring something to prove that I have breathed for at least nineteen years.

I thought she was going to brain me with my own stiletto, but she was pacified with the promise of carousing on Sunday instead.

(I like the word 'carousing' because it sounds so much better than, if not as honest as,'getting shit-faced drunk')

One of the things I like best about going out is preparing for it. I like making my eyelids shine like the scales of a dragon, or like some glowing, enchanted jasmine; I like putting rose on my cheeks and the dream of a kiss on my mouth and I love, love dressing up. Pretty skirts, pretty blouses, looking into the mirror and liking what you see and then not looking again for fear that your hair will be too messy and your face will be too round again; your lips too big, your eyes too scared.

The drinks were sweet and cold and went down like snow melting - I don't care if ordering mixed drinks is 'girly' or weak because straight alcohol tastes like nail polish remover and if I'm spending money, then I had better enjoy getting drunk as well as being drunk. As it was, we stopped at 'enjoyably tipsy' and were able to walk in a straight line home! I love going out at night because it's so private and lonely and you can hear the uncanny rumbling of unseen waterfalls like the call of Cthulhu. To scare him away, we sang trashy Disney songs and hummed when we couldn't remember the words.

It was thoroughly delightful, and I did not wake up with a headache. I'm still trying to get used to the feeling of not having to be scared of exams and essays. I feel like a balloon let out on holiday!

Soon, I'll be able to write letters again, which I'm very much looking forward to! I am beginning to remember what it's like to want to write and write and write more - if anyone would like to receive letters, please tell me so!

It's such a summery afternoon, I feel like I'm being washed into a faded, 70s polaroid.

30 March 2009 @ 04:36 pm
'The gift of wings' is L. M. Montgomery named her inspirations - the ability to lift oneself high-high-higher than a Whomping Willow, stabbing straight upwards into an endlessly blue sky and right through a heart-shaped cloud. But the price to pay is stiff - "the gods do not give their gifts freely" - and when you fall, each tattered feather is a heartbreak and when hungry gravity seizes you and crushes you into her bosom, each breath is a mouthful of dirt and sand, snot and tears.

I put him into a glistening, black beetle of a taxi and smiled and smiled and smiled in the rain.

(It rained, like a cliche)

He turned back to look at me and I waved, when all I wanted to do was howl.

His spring eyes.

His dear, tousled autumn hair.


I managed to get back into the house. I closed my door and faced my empty room - already looking neater for the lack of him.

And then, I burst into tears.

(Like another cliche)

24 March 2009 @ 08:47 pm

My room is in a hideous state - my mascara is spidery, reaching far along the edges of my eyes - the world outside is the ugly duckling incarnate, grey snow melting into dead, brown grass - and yet, despite these dreadful circumstances, I am happy.

That is strange, especially for me.

But seated in a rusty, autumnal chair (that I pulled out of a trash-heap with the help of my pixie-friend), the whirring of his dream-machine and the sound of my typing filling up my golden room, is a dream boy. He has long lashes that I would kill for, and eyes that are the beginning of spring (brown and green and gold, like when the sun flickers through new, green leaves), his hair is brown and tousled and his cheeks are pink. He has a smile that would melt your knees till they puddled about your toes. And now, he is no longer just a dream-boy, a memory-boy, but a real boy. And he really is seated in my autumn-throne, smiling at me in puzzlement. And when I grin back, something in my face must warn him that he's being discussed because he asks me what I'm doing and I tell him that I'm weaving my JuJu and now he's worried~

He slows me down, he speeds me up and he's here for a whole glorious week. Sometimes I flinch away from so much human contact after so little for so long, and sometimes I mourn my lonely-times-lost when I was my own girl but he makes me giggle and it's so, so, so good to press my face into his shoulder and sniff his own scent into me.

(Isn't that a trifle creepy?)

(Just a bit.)

Exams are coming, essays are due - but when are they not? Letters dance to be written and books yearn to be read, but today, paper and words and all their ghostly witchery will have to wait - just for a little while.

A dream boy reached the shores of the waiting dream girl today. And he will be here till Sunday whereupon a piece of my heart will go again with him and he can store it with all the other shards.

02 March 2009 @ 11:54 pm
My planner. Senseless and colorful and patched-up-scrappy, like your favorite old toy.


Warning! Very image-heavy.

Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly uninteresting event.Collapse )

Aiee. I do not like how it protrudes from my pretty white page. But I am currently too chock-full of grey (my own, other people's, I don't know, I don't know any more...) to split the pages up. It is late. I want to dream of holding hands again and being pressed up against a wall and kissed.
26 February 2009 @ 12:15 am

I tried very hard to find a picture of that scene in Order of the Phoenix where Luna Lovegood goes skipping down the halls, her long white-gold hair flying... sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in people's heads (oftentimes, such daydreams happen when I'm supposed to be, oh, finishing up several articles that are due tomorrow). I suspect Luna's would be a strange and terrible place - beautifully deadly. Wrackspurts that bite your head off, card games that end with "Off with your head!"s, chess matches that involve thunder and lightning, great things with saliva strings from their fanged mouths hiding in mistletoe...

As she skips down the hallway, would you jolt and fumble inside her airy-fairy, nary-carey hair? Would you fly out of her left ear and hang on for dear life on a strand that is as unearthly as moonlight?

When I was a child, I used to skip a great deal. Small tot in the buttery hot sunlight, bowl-cut flying into disarray, glasses toppling off my nose as I skipped and lifted up into the air, pretending to be a Madame Butterfly.

Skipping is a lost art these days. Maybe one day, when no one is around, I will skip down the walk and bellow out ABBA songs. One day, when there is no one else in the world.



Photobucket gothania and my_head_is_blue, I owe you letters and I will send them the moment my monthly share of filthy lucre comes in and I can trade it for stamps. It is CRIMINAL how much they cost these days. I'm so sorry it's taken so long!

Photobucket I really want Luna's earrings.

22 February 2009 @ 11:46 pm

Today, while I was preparing to get off the bus and into the ice-scented night. I got out of my seat, seesawing my way towards the exit and waited for the bus to come to its usual halt - with a great deal of screeching and jolting and actions generally injurious to those presumptuous enough to wear silly shoes when they are too poor to afford taxis.

There was a very tall boy, getting off the same stop as I was and he reached the doors before I did. We stood there for perhaps five seconds as the bus drew to a halt and I fell in love with his back.

Here are some unimportant details about him: he had curly hair. It was brown, I think.

Here are some important details about his back: It was broad and tapered down to a narrow waist. His black corduroy jacket was stretched across the expanse of his shoulders and there was a scent - like new clothes and washing liquid that has chemicals added to make it smell like sunshine and just a hint of musky deodorant. It was a good smell, to match the reassuring look of his back. There seemed nothing limp or overly taut about his spine, it was relaxed like an upright cobra lazily swaying side to side in rhythm with the bus. I wanted to lean forward, press my face against his back, clench my fists into the warm, reassuring corduroy and just rest.

The door opened with a blast of cold air and carbon dioxide. He stepped out, and so did I, and so did a girl with a flowered luggage bag. The wheels squeaked against the ice and there was a corset lacing of snow on the ground.

He was always before me and as I unlocked the door, the boy and his back disappeared around a corner.

17 February 2009 @ 11:11 pm

I always stay up late, but tonight, I'm doing it with a purpose. I'm waiting for 11:11. I remember when I was small, small - a few inches less and I'd've been a hole in the ground - I was always fascinated by that tick of a clock, the tipping over of a second that would move the hand squarely into the little line signifying 10:05 exactly. It's more exciting with digital clocks because that change sneaks up on you. Now you see it, now you don't!

The world is much more full of toys when you're five.

Tonight I wait with a purpose though. I'm going to wish that I can write a ripping good essay, my exposition of the female roles in male-narrative quests schemes thingummies will render my professor speechless. The only thing the poor man will be able to do is draw an A+ and because that won't be enough to express the magnitude of the ripping, tearing, mauling-ness of my paper, he will have to scrawl another +++!! in bright blue ink.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Lean over. Fall. Close your eyes. Breathe. Wish.