cousin stephen is safe. i don't know the details, he was able to call doda around six this morning, and she called my mother, and i just found out from my father.

sara's aunt and uncle made it out. her cousin didn't.

i'm sure i know others, i just saw westfield people on tv with pictures of missing fathers. those are my people. i only mention stephen and anthony because, as far as i know, those are the only people involved whom i truly know. who i could pick out of a crowd and tell them something no one else would know. i can't believe this is real.

i didn't bring any books to classes today. i skipped my science class. i teared up and had to leave in a meeting with a professor. i didn't hand in a paper that was due. i am not in the mood for a major test tomorrow.
painted at 12:48 AM

 
september eleventh twothousandone. a day that will live in infamy. four hijacked airplanes.one hit the north world trade center. one hit the south world trade center. one hit outside the pentagon. and one crashed east of pittsburg. at this point i don't care who did it. i only pray there are more injured, and less dead, in the rubbbles.

this is not oklahoma city, this is new york. this is personal. this means calling friends and family, trying to get through to people. this means hearing story after story of the family and friends of friends who just missed it, who were lucky. and this means knowing people who are still missing.

"at a time like this, how can you believe in a god?"
how can you not.
painted at 10:39 PM

 
i feel like the responsive reading we always do at "my home congregation" (a recent buzzphrase, it seems) on friday nights. where the end of one line is the beginning of the next.

and scars are worth it. but are scars worth it? luckily, i suppose, that first reaction has been to delay, not to act. so i've been delaying. a good thing, i know. except, of course, when it comes to my jumbled head. everyone's fighting and yelling and screaming at each other, and in four different languages, too. which makes it insanely hard to concentrate on homework. especially the homework i have which mostly consists of reading hundreds of pages of books per night. but i can't seem to get past a paragraph without slapping my arm in hopes of getting those damn nerve-brain messengers to shut up for just a few hours. sleep is getting harder and harder. it only seems to come in quick naps at inopportune moments.

but even though i can't sleep, i can't seem to concentrate on fucking anything. i can't clean my room, neaten my books, read for pleasure, even stay on one channel on the tv. i'm in and out, washing dishes again and again, lighting and then blowing out incense and candles, scrubbing and scrubbing, starting and quitting crosswords, and being exhausted but not tired.

i took me an insane amount of concentration to write these few words, but i can't focus on this anymore.
painted at 3:17 AM

 
okay. well if you have a lot to say and don't know where to start, you should just begin with what you know.

i'm in the computer lab in the architecture building at the university of florida in gainesville and it is 12:39am and i don't want to go home. i don't want to be home right now i don't want to do homework i don't want to be in my livingroom or kitchen or bedroom i don't know where i want to be. if i had a car i'd be doing the high school thing of driving into some deserted parkinglot and lighting some candles and curling up with a black and white composition notebook and writing writing writing. but i don't have a car. and i don't know of any safe places. i don't know where a girl can go in this place and curl up in a dark corner alone and fall asleep and not have to worry about weird creeps or drunk bastards harassing or hurting her. i think i may try the stairwell at the third floor of little hall when i'm done here.

i'm lonely. it's my own fault i guess. i'm just so damn tired of pretending all my life i started being honest. hardcore. big mistake. it left me with....nothing. no friends, no prospects, no feelings. i guess i realize some times when i've been too honest, in actions more than words, in toneofvoice and body language and everything. but fuck it feels good. not to hurt people, don't get me wrong, but sometimes you just don't realize what a toll lying for your whole life can be. i mean i'm sure there's a happy medium acceptable to our socity's standards, but fuck, aren't we ever allowed to just do what feels right or feels good? when someone makes me angry, can't i show it? do i have to always always put on a happy pretend fake plastic smile? not only is that tiring, it's fucking painful.

in professional atmospheres (work, clubs, classes) i have to be happygolucky. i understand that. i agree with that. but when i'm just chilling with friends, there's always that option of being pretend happy and being strightup. i never recognized that option before a year ago. anger (or any other unpleasant emotion, come to think of it) translated to selfhate and tears and selfinjury in some form or another. but once i stopped that, i started losing friends. and friends are much more important to me than my own health. they make my health. so maybe the best thing to do is just start trying to be always happy again. fuck the middle "aware" stage. just internalize. maybe i'll win a few friends back. and scars are worth it.
painted at 1:07 AM