gaolhouse rock

"I didn't take your money when I had ALL your credit cards locked up in my dreams." -Charles Manson

Wow, who knew Mr. Manson had an inner Rimbaud? There's something hauntingly creepy about that sentence, and it's not only because it's from a serial killer to a (theoretical) ten-year-old boy. Point is, Manson and Rimbaud are both fucking NUTS. However, I'm unflaggingly curious; should I play pen-pals with a serial killer? Would he write me prose poems? Because I want prose poems, but maybe permanent solitary reclusion is a weak substitute for absinthe.

And I'm thinking of children-eaters and man-slayers when I should be--

I should be doing laundry. Four piles, consisting of wet towels, old jeans, soiled dresses & other things, lay about on my floor. They've been growing for about two point two weeks and have begun to integrate into each other. I'm out of socks (but it's springtime [but it might rain]). I can't bring myself to move, however; the exhaustion imposed by living in this dump is bereaving me of all energy. But I'm comfortable. I can't be bothered once I'm comfortable.

property rights

What the fuck. Here I am, trying to be studious for once in my college life (can I admit to you this is my second year at Brown and this is the first time that I've ever used the library to do my work?) and the guy who chooses to sit in front of me happens to be the loudest motherfucker on the planet. I mean, there I was, all awkward and insecure about my cowboy boots clacking away on the linoleum tiles when no one's making a sound (you always have to be quiet in a library, right?) and here he comes stomping in. He plays his music without earphones (fucker!) and it's jazz (motherfucker! because I can't concentrate when jazz's playing) and he's eating something hot and meaty-smelling (rawr?) and slopping about like I don't belong here.

moving away from the pulsebeat

I'm so glad that Spring Break begins TOMORROW, although, in my typical foolish fashion, I still have a paper to write. Why so eager for this break? In addition to the fact that I'll get to indulge my lazy side, this will be the long-awaited distancing I needed from the devil herself--my suitemate.

Think of the most annoying person possible. This person is 242,495 times WORSE. She's the most boorish unclassy thing to walk this planet. You'd never know she was a virgin from how wide (and permanently) her legs are spread.

Why did I live with her in the first place? I like to think of myself of a hero and would like to say my only reason was to save her roommate, who happens to be the sweetest girl on earth. But really, I suppose it's because she used to seem pretty. These days, however, the prettiness has dwindled down to beady eyes and a thin upper lip; in other words, I'm finding it mightily difficult to see anything attractive about her. She stands like a chimp: ass out, boobs up, eyes glassy, mouth open. She has a ghetto air about her, but it's less urban and more destitute. She's got all the volume of a Texan drunk, all the swagger of a D-list white rapper, the frugality of a Vietnamese immigrant grandmother, and a vulgarity even Hugh Heffner would shun.

Jordan/Katie Price has a mile of style and class on her; that's how AWFUL she is. Whenever she opens her mouth, my ears bleed from the sheer shrillness of her booming voice. She loves to sing and never relents to bless us with her sweet prickly falsetto. She dresses like a two-cent road slut meets 16 year old pregnant teenager--from Hiawassee Mobile Homes.

Did I also mention she is an awful person? She's a liar, a deceiver, a homewrecker, and just totally stupid. And proud. Basically, a complete and total Philistine. I'm glad 99% of the world doesn't take her seriously.

With love,
Liz

Also, I'm missing my necklace. Uh-oh.
ETA: I found my necklace! Hurrah!

it's one of those days

My suitemate, Cezanne, is off playing piano again, a sure sign that there's "trouble in paradise." We all know it has some sort of sentimental value, but nevertheless I never did understand what part of a person makes it so that music is the best, and sometimes only, therapist. Perhaps it's because I have not a single ounce of musical talent in me, and in some ways, I'm jealous of the obvious ability to cope.

My other roommate seems to just avoid everyone except the boyfriend and the therapist, and it's only an unimportant matter of time that she comes out, happy and toothy again with the usual bitchin' attitude. And lately, more often than not, there have no been no grey skies, so clearly, she must be getting better. And yet others deal by working out, painting, going for a long walk in cold weather. And most seem to just talk it out.

And me? I just think a lot. I keep it in and sometimes, I write myself temporary notes. I hate "talking it out" for every reason possible. I'm afraid of judgement. I'm afraid of having my emotions discredited. I'm afraid of putting a burden on a person who didn't ask for it. I'm afraid of being "that girl." I'm afraid of being misunderstood, and I'm afraid of giving people power over me. I'm afraid of a million things that come with confessing.

And honestly, I don't think I'm a troubled person. I certainly don't want to be seen as a troubled person, but sometimes, I fear I come off that way. It's just that I don't tell people things, and yeah, I see how frustrating I can be. I grew up being taught, "What you are is not as important as who you are." Perhaps I lived by it too literally; lots of people know who I am, and hardly anyone knows what I am.

Why am I thinking about this again? Because I think the aunt I spent an entire summer caring for has died--and I'm not going to prance around, crying my heart out, and "talking about it." It's become such a term, "talking." It's just not my style.

No one's confirmed it, but I feel it. It's the sound in my mom's voice when she talks about Vietnam and the absence of the subject when I call my grandmother. After hearing that she has gone into surgery once again, I woke up feeling a cold weight in my lungs. It's a familiar numbing feeling, a cross between the non-feeling of marijuana and the feeling of salt water from the beach drying on my back. Surgery after surgery, after a near solid year of her suffering, I'm ready to let her go. I'm not mourning, no. Because honestly? We all saw it coming. After years and years of death after death--Robert, grandpa, grandma, baby Frankie, Erica...--I've developed a coping mechanism. No, I'm not a cold person, but yes, I realize that death happens. It just does. Accidents, diseases, old age--I've known them all, these faces of departure.

And it's okay. Because maybe I just don't need to talk it out. Maybe I don't need to cope.

a very long engagement

Lately, I've become obsessed with Gaspard Ulliel, the pouty-lipped French actor with the Doberman wound dimple--for practically no other reason than that I am just. absolutely. bored.

Boredom is a dangerous friend of mine; it's the reason why I...
- decided to take Computer Science (and also the reason why I dropped it),
- never go to German, even though I know it's the singular thing hurting my grade,
- take pleasure in weekends of complete irresponsibility,
- admire hedonists,
- decided to live with someone I hated, a total homewrecker, the ultimate asperser, the bane of my existence (shall I describe in more words?),
- and most importantly, it's the reason why I start shit with people.

Ennui. Such a perfect word for my predicament.

Also, it's the reason why I'm beginning to write in this blog again. From now on, this blog will be put to use--it's going to be a feast, with annoying ramblings for silverware and post-modern (maybe) discourses for consumption.

favorite songs

Well, to start off the new year, I've made a resolution to keep a regular journal of sorts--more of a place to keep random thoughts and things of personal interest.

Another resolution: to forget 2007. I think it was the most disappointing year of my life (I'm only nineteen, so it's no big feat), considering that my expectations have never been so high... and unmet. I thought my outlook was rather realistic, but I can't but say I pigeon-holed myself. I have that terrible habit of exacerbating my own misery.

To start the new year, I got a new haircut, new clothes, and a new outlook.

I don't have much to talk about... but lately, sad songs have been on my mind. Actually, to be entirely honest, my taste is rather "maudlin" as my dear roommate once pointed out, and I'm going to talk about my favorite songs of all time, because why the hell not?

----------

"Hurt" by Johnny Cash
- Clearly, this song is depressing. But it's the one song that will always stop me *every time.* No exaggeration--I don't know what it is... Johnny Cash's age-ladened vocals, the raw, poignant lyrics, the simple instrumentals... this version touches me in a way that Nine Inch Nails never could.

"A Place Called Home" by Kim Richey
- I adore Buffy, and I adore Angel--the show, not the broody character I find exasperating. I first heard this song when Fred died on the show, and, as much as I am loathe to admit how huge my inner Buffy nerd is, this song is loved because of its fantasy-television association. Joss Whedon, the creator of Buffy and Angel, is genius; I always identify with his characters, and I feel this song could not be any more perfect to represent my loyalty to the characters. This folksy tune is nostalgic and reminds me of a simpler time.

"Fields of Gold" by Eva Cassidy
- I love the original by Sting also, but Eva Cassidy's version of anything, I declare, is always going to be better than the original. This is the most heartbreaking song of all time. I think it was by accident that I came across this; I doubt this song ever got airplay (regularly enough for me to listen in on, anyway). The point is, I found it somewhere online shortly after Robert died and promptly broke down. I lost more people after that, but, as cliche as it is, this song helped me through it. Once upon a time, this song used to be The Song To Cry To. Now, I think of fields of gold... I think of people I miss bathing in sunlight. I think of the west wind, and I think of my sick aunt. It's comforting in its pain. If only Cassidy were alive today...

"Lesson Learned" by Ray Lamontagne
- I can't say I can relate to the song in any way, but I figure songs are always up to the listener's interpretation, and anyway, I'm a HUGE sucker for breathy deep male vocals and grumbly songs about heartache.

"Every You Every Me" by Placebo
- I miss my alternative rock/punk days. I remember hearing this for the first time in "Cruel Intentions" (so horribly GOOD, and Jesus, isn't my memory alarming?!) and falling in love immediately. I still don't get why it's "Every You and Every Me" and not "Every Me [and] Every You" as the song goes, but it's just a good, pulse-accelerating song that I feel I could've written in my younger angstier teen days--you know, secretly.

"Ever Fallen in Love?" by the Buzzcocks
- Possibly my favorite song of all time, by my favorite band of all time. Isn't this surprising, given my general taste? I love the melody more than the lyrics, and I don't need to explain why I love this song. It's just plainly amazing. Brilliant, perfectly brilliant.

"Levon" by Elton John
- Elton John is my God. He holds a very special place in my apartment--in the upper right hand corner of my mirror. I LOVE ELTON JOHN. Despite the fact that the impossibly glorious Elton John is more of a love-song/upbeat pop showstopper sort of man, "Levon" is undeniably my favorite song from him. I think it's the country twang of the song that grabs me... or the narration of a man I feel I know. I'm totally serious, too. I'm so overly sentimental.

"Foolish Games" by Jewel
- 'Nough said. This is my ultimately girly-girl I'm-such-a-goddamn-girl song. That being said, Christian, my gay best, loves it also.

"Lay Lady Lay" by Bob Dylan
- My favorite line of all time: "His clothes are dirty, but his hands are clean." That's saying a lot, since I am the hugest sap for meaningful words. So puissant. The first man to sing that to me and mean it will be the man I marry.

"Whiskey Lullaby" by Alison Krauss & Brad Paisley
- I love love-gone-wrong songs. I adore Alison Krauss' clear clear voice. It's so pure, and I hear everything, the whole story. Such a lovely sad song... "and the angels sang a whiskey lullaby..." The angels sang indeed.

"Caravane" by Raphael
- Don't understand a lick of it. But sexy much? SO SEXY. It's kinda whispery, lilting vocals, something persuasive about the tune. Poetic inflections abound.

"Yellow Eyes" by Minnie Driver
- Minnie Driver has the voice I die for. I want to be the girl with the yellow eyes... I wished I had Driver's voice, and I wish I penned this song.

"Rebel Yell" by Billy Idol
- Billy Idol is, pun truly not intended, is my idol. I'm nothing like him. In fact, I'm a rather sensibly dressed, sensible-jewelry wearing Asian with sensible hair. But something about this song makes me want to put on leather and do something crazy, like dance on tables. "Rebel Yell" has been a favorite of mine since the 6th grade and besides, it makes me feel free and alive.

"Hallelujah" by Jeff Buckley
- WTF, right? I hate religion, I've been known to be called "a militant atheist"... and I have no idea why this is one of my favorite songs. But it's amazing. I couldn't care less about Jesus and Christianity, but... it's just really, really good.

"Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode
- I am ultra-talkative, usually. I talk so fucking much, I self-exile myself when in the company of nice people who are too polite to shut me up. Talking, for me, is an avoidant activity, ironically. I am a horrific liar, but I can talk myself out of a lot of things. My nature aside, "Enjoy the Silence" is probably the song of my life.

----------

Signed,
Liz

contemplations from an emo viewpoint

Won't lie, am totally drunk as I write this (so excuse the grammar and possibly crude diction). Had a not-so-enlightening talk today... sadly realized some friends didn't love me quite as much as I loved them.

I realized those who are worth caring for and those who aren't worth idealizing.

I need a boyfriend, I've decided. Or someone who listens to me/someone to listen to.

I miss being happy. I miss being delusional and thinking that things were okay. I miss not having this burden, this invisible elephant.

I miss people I wish were still alive to hear me out today.