mmmarilyn

3.19am
Thursday
29 June 2006

boiled-looking skin, eyes the color of quarters, in his shirt sleeves and the temperature must have been 25 degrees Farenhait—staring at Iris for just too long a beat before he turned away yet there is something about the man, the slow smile like an insinuating drawl, the working of his mouth, something that lodges, poisonous and sweet, in Iris Courtney for weeks.

—Joyce Carol Oates, Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart

Heya. I'm sorry if you've come and checked this a whole bunch in the last three weeks. I'm in a bit of inner turmoil I guess, just enough to want to lay low for a second or two, anyway.

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Things I've thought through the idea of writing of:

After out late dancing at a pseudo sorta ritzy club with Lena, something of a debate on the value of a party girl. I go back and forth on it about whether I derive an obsessive and constant (and vain and egotistical) self-awareness, or whether I'm more capable of shrugging that bullshit aside because I know well how many people are so paralyzed by what people think of them. It's an enigma in a paradox, and maybe it doesn't matter because I feel a lot more wholesome of late. And maybe I got a little double-vision over a little bit of recollection for what I badass party girl I was at one point, and a little bit of relief— that was mostly in response to my restraint that I didn't spit my gum out in some probably-mostly-good-hearted guy's face. I was so fucking sick of pathetic polyester-rayon cutouts of Cool Guys dancing all near us and making eyes, but really, that would've been low class.

The other is sort of related to a secret project ("There's something pleasing about a secret project. And you can take more risks, because no one will know if you fail.") and it's a really sensitive subject for me anyway, I would probably say, so I'm going to be relatively discreet, I suppose, and just say that I've thought a good bit, provoked by a long letter to my little brother, about what good it does to hope good things for someone, why I always ask people to "cross their fingers for me" when I'm not a superstitious girl—what is the point and the purpose of a wish for someone, what is its meaning and what is its significance.

I posted to my LJ, holy weird, Batman.

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I went to Six Flags today, and drove to the farmer's market this morning at like 10a, and now it's just about 4.30 in the morning, and I'm going to read more of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (other good NY mention today courtesy of Tony Soprano) and stop this spiritual bond I'm about to develop with this laptop and this terminal I have open in particular.

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