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amanda's Journal
Below are the 5 most recent journal entries.
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2006.03.13 03.24
iguessi'mhorribleforyou
iguessit'swhatthepeopledo
iheardyou'removingoutofhere
youknowi'mgettingout.
Well, hello there.
Can I tell you a secret?
Oh. You knew all along. Right.
It took me a really long time to realize that Mary I'm Ready and Conclusion were the same song. They both gave me goosebumps. They both still do.
I know I said I was okay, but what do you really think about me? You can't leave me alone to think about this kind of thing.
I'm not the same person I was when I was sixteen or seventeen or even eighteen. You don't even know who I've become. And you probably don't even care.
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
I wrote a poem about you once but it doesn't matter anymore, because I lost you a long time ago, you sold your soul and you're not coming back.
But it doesn't matter, I'm out. I've been out. I'm so two years ago.
You've been over me since who knows when.
And should I even care? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I am left ripping out pages from history books,
pasting my life between the lines of men one cannot hope
To emulate--but there is no other way.
My life is one big allusion.
My life is one big inside joke
With myself and myself alone.
I'm burn out by Twenty, heavy breaths and shaking hands,
I shouldn't be having panic attacks about where I fit in to the world
and why I don't
and the only person I can talk about it with
is the only person I do fit with.
This is not meant to be taken artfully.
This is my attempt to come to terms with my life.
This is my attempt to get everything out of my head,
to get it out through my blood and blones and skin
and in to tiny particles of light I can't touch.
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
WHOLOVESYOUNOW?
Spring Break...
Last year, I crashed my car.
This year, one can only imagine what's going to go down in the next few days...
Tonight we write down to clear our minds
You'll find in time you'll begin to rely on
exactly what you left behind...
Truly sorry, that is life.
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2005.01.19 03.58
On babynamer.com, the reviewers said the name Amanda is most likely the name of a driven person. It also says that a "Mandy" is a tablet of Mandrax, a British trademark name for a sleeping aid. ALB are the code letters for the airport in Albany. I share my middle name with a Russian sniper who killed 309 enemy soldiers during WWII. I was named after a Barry Manilow song. I hate my name. But I always talk about my name. All I ever do is talk about my name and my first love. Wait, wait. Let me try something different.
---
In third grade, no one has to worry about a) getting pregnant or b) smoking pot. In third grade, all you have to worry about are timestables and...fuck, I don't even remember anymore. All I remember was the first time I saw you, sitting on that cold basement floor, when both of our classes convened to watch some crappy kids movie. You were wearing an All That shirt and I thought you were the coolest kid I'd ever seen.
My first crush was named Ian. Ian with a Polish last name I could probably spell only if I tried hard enough. He was the height of grungy Catholic school fashion. The next year, fourth grade, we were in the same class. He also sat in front of me. Fourth grade was a weird time, a lot of my memories from grammar school happened in that room, but I don't remember what the number was at all. It was the first on the top level, the side facing Princeton Rd. The sun was always really bright in that room. I remember in fourth grade my best friend and I weren't in the same class so I spent the first day of school crying. I remember we had an incubator and raised ducks, one of which was named Joy. I remember the SQR system and how they were so easy but I loved doing them. I love doing worksheets.
In college we don't have ducks and we don't have worksheets. I had no best friend anywhere. I was too nervous to cry, though.
I liked Ian because no matter what, he made me laugh. He was a total slacker, even for a fourth grader. I wanted to be friends with him forever. Needless to say, forever only lasted until sixth grade because he moved to Colonia. He gave me his address before he left. I never wrote him.
Sometimes I wonder what's happened between now and then, I mean, a lot changes between sixth grade and college. Eveything changes. We probably wouldn't even recognize each other now. I'd like to know what happened to him though. He's not on facebook, I looked. But for all I know, he might not even be in college. He might not have made it. He might not be alive.
I guess I'm just kind of overwhelmed. I've been out of high school for barely six months and everything's exploding. People who never talked to me want to be my friend. People I haven't seen in three years want to date me. People I spent most of my time with hate me. I keep wondering who else is going to start talking to me again (or stop for that matter..). Will that ex boyfriend of two years ago ever call me and force me to apologize for ripping his heart out of his chest? Will the girl who got kicked out of my grammar school come back to haunt me? Will Ian suddenly remember me and look me up on myspace to profess his love to me?
College was supposed to be a time to get away from people, start over. But they just keep coming back. All the people you'd never expect to speak to again all suddenly remember what they missed about you and all the people you'd want to make amends with don't care. That's how life works, though, I guess.
I just wish that the people who wanted me weren't losers who live in their parents attic surrounded by filth and smoke. Why can't I attract an intelligent, decent, musical, attractive, hip boy?
But in short, Ian probably forgot about me long before I ever had cause to remember him. He probably smokes pot, too.
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3 lost the will to fight |
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2004.11.24 23.58
a session in fragments.
[[tonightyourghostwillaskmyghost..
where is the love?]]
to write is to be troubled
or passionate or
something other than this.
(i'm sick, you're tired, let's dance.)
to ask to be troubled
in a time of great peace
is to ask a fish to
leave its bowl and move in to your
bedroom, flapping on your
carpet.
to ask to be passionate
is more of asking, "where has
my passion gone?"
(where is love now...)
but to ask to be something other
than what i am
and how i exist in these
moments..
is simply asking
to feel vividly
and that's all
i can ask for.
-
the most amazing ideas in my life have stemmed from three things:
literature, language, and mathematics.
--
we're passing slow, we're passing slow
---
I want to know your plans.
I want to know your favorite words,
the songs that give you chills.
I want to know what novels
changed your life, what poems
make you want to fall in love.
With me, there are so many
words that have brought me
to this point. thousands of
other people's words
that have filled me up;
created me.
and i want you to know...
----
French love letters
are usually addressed
to a cabbage.
Mais je ne suis pas française
Ni un petit chou.
My love letters are addressed
to the leaves and the breeze,
to a fresh cup of coffee
with a caramel swirl,
[and that's cara-mel, none
of that carmel shit]
to closing my eyes and seeing
nothing
but a group of actors,
putting on a play
in theatre language I don't understand.
My love letters are either stale,
addressed to those who will never care.
Or pointless,
addressed to those who'll never know.
Sometimes, I send them out to the chill that covers me
when I hear We Looked Like Giants
and the feelings I so crave
to feel
again.
But mostly, they're just
addressed to the people
(or things)
who'll never
read them.
-----
there are no
scan-tron machines
in BC.
here, there are only
that guys.
the scarves, the sweatshirts
in shades of gray, green, and blue
like a meadow before a storm.
to elitist fucks
,much like myself,
to be that guy
is asking to be
made fun of
mais ici,
to be cet homme is
as natural
as the falling leaves.
i guess i'll admit it.
the second i leave
i douse myself in the colors of stormy meadows
screaming along with the violent winds
and praising the
pouring rain.
------
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the will to fight |
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