diary of a hopeless romantic [diary of a hopeless romantic|lovers in a dangerous time|
love song for no one


[ where it happens |
love shack
]
[ see | all my loving ]
[ what was | seasons of love ]

Feed me? [Wednesday, March 31st, 2010
20:26pm]
Does anyone know how I can feed blogspot into livejournal? I can't be bothered to crosspost everything. I keep lj around because occasionally I need to vent out privately, but for most of my entries, I'd like an update all solution...anyone?

many many thanks to lovely kitty cat, if you wish to read my ramblings and can't be bothered to go to another site (understandable, as I can't be bothered to post on another site), please add my feed from http://syndicated.livejournal.com/bnljello/

Yey. super.
4 lovers - love me.

And then there were 11 [Saturday, January 2nd, 2010
19:32pm]
every once in a while I have to allow myself this bit of leniency when it comes to enjoying a good movie or tv show. this is one of those whiles. While there were many agreat moments (heehee "worst. rescue. ever.") I have some beef to vent, so here it is..

my top 10 dissappointments with The End of Time Pt 2

(behind the cut to avoid spoilers)Collapse )
3 lovers - love me.

In My Place [Saturday, January 2nd, 2010
14:22pm]
People who see my sister and I for the first time like to point out how similar we look. In actuality, despite 12 years my junior, my sister is taller than me. She has long flowing dark hair like a mane, the kind I used to only dream about as a child with my misbehaving curls getting the best of my head. She has pale skin like me but the kind that easily tans after a long peaceful day in the sun, and doesn't boil, bubble and burst like mine. And yet she has my eyes, and she has my nose, and she has my lips to a certain extent, and people always relate her to me as it is quite clear that we are indeed sisters.

People who know us a bit better than first impressions like to point out how different we are. My sister is bold and fearless at times, she is not afraid of a little white lie to get the job done (I am far from a saint, but I have an overactive conscience which makes me at times a very bad liar), she is a little bit manipulative, and has a good mouth on her. Don't get me wrong, she is a good kid, much unlike many of her age, still innocent to bits in so many ways that keep me sound asleep at night. And yet, my mom likes to point out how devious she can get if only she tries.

But my mom, and I suppose even my sister don't know one thing. My sister is me, in a different generation. My sister lives out the fantasies I had when I was her age, if only the least bit. These are the similarities that never were, and so could never be compared, but I know. I see. I was a child of dreams. I spent my days in the libraries, my nights under the covers with a flashlight. We had a mobile library on our street, a big truck that would stop by twice a week, a world of adventures on wheels. Other kids would run out of their houses in excitement upon hearing the sounds of the ice cream truck, but I would take my little feet (note: they likely haven't grown since then...) as fast as I could when the library would honk outside my doors. And life was so much more interesting in those books. You could be none the wiser by looking at me, delicate and fragile today, but I was a tomboy, in those days. Running on the hills across from our small apartments, climbing on the trees, as high as I could, and spending hours under the seawater in hopes of turning into a mermaid. And yet I was shy about my dreams, and I kept my make beliefs to myself for the most part. My interactions with other children were never overly imaginative or fantastical. This was my world, and no one was allowed in.

And my sister? She too gets lost in the books. Except she has movies, and music, and tv to boot as well. And she opens the doors to her mind, and she lets people in. And for that I am envious. Not because I think she needs to try out every little scheme that worked well for a fictional teenager (note: in real life it usually ends in disaster), but because 12 years older and I still haven't figured out how to do that.

I am still a child of dreams. I am still exhausted by the banality of reality. I am still much more alive in an hour a book, or a movie, or a television program than I am in 14 hours of daily living. And sometimes I think I matured backwards. Because even as kids we know the difference between real and fantasy, but the more I see, and the more I live, the more I believe in some of those fantasies. And while as a child I could detach myself for a moment of happiness and take comfort in the fact it's only in my head, these days I want more. These days I long to take a little bit of those colors and paint my world with them. But I don't. Because bad endings are romantic in star-crossed fairy tales, but not in life. If I leap, there's a chance I won't make it to the other side without a broken bone or a broken heart. And when I shake my head at my friend, who lives as if she hasn't read the next chapter yet, and ends up with her money stolen, or sick, or under arrest, and when I tell her to come down from her cloud in the sky and to reality, I really want to tell her to never come down, and take me with her. But I never will. Because I am still that child who won't let the other kids into her world, not because they may ridicule her for it, but because they may ruin it forever, and then, there'll be nothing left to run away to.

note: I posted this on facebook quite half-heartedly, as this is most likely one of the most personal and intimate things I've written. But for now, I think it's going to stay put, because this is who I am, and as a writer I need to let that out
3 lovers - love me.

Happy Endings [Wednesday, October 21st, 2009
14:58pm]
[ In love withSounds like | numb ]

(crossposted)

There are five types of people in the world and they are normally distributed in a bell shape of dreaming. At the left end of the curve there are the few, the rare that are happy with an ordinary life. They are content with paying the bills, raising a family, taking the joy in a good cup of coffee or a sunny day. Right above them, a bit more common, are the people who know down deep inside them that there is something missing but they dare not complain, dare not strive or even hope for something more. Perhaps they think they do not deserve anything more. Perhaps they figure it is useless to dream. The suppressed dissatisfaction burns inside them a hole. And so they appear happy with their ordinary life, content with paying the bills, raising a family, trying to take joy in a good cup of coffee or a sunny day, until they blast out their brains or massacre the masses.

Slightly on the right of the general public that will be shortly discussed, are the fewer who find it a bit difficult to breathe right. They feel the tingles at the tip of their fingers as if things are constantly slipping away. So they allow themselves a single, or a single and a half dream to indulge in. They wait until they're 40 or 50 to marry the absolute perfect one or spend every heavy breath reaching the top at work. And they plug it, that unstoppable rush and gush of aspirations, in one or two problem spots where the wall nearly cracked, and go about their lives nearly peacefully. And finally, right above them sit the lucky ones. Few and rare like the ones at the other far end, and equally enviable are those who know that it's not enough, and choose to not settle for a minute, not by an inch, not through the ridicule or difficulty, not for loneliness or failure. They want more and they either get it, or spend their lives trying to.

The masses, the right down smack middle of the pack people, are those who know they want more. That's me. I want more out of life. More than waking up in the morning and going to a job that pays the bills. More than marrying someone who is rather attractive, rather clever, makes me laugh now and then, and gets along with me. I want more than occasionally having a drink with a friend or going to a movie and thus filling up my quota of happiness for the month. More than going to school to put a fancy piece of paper on the wall to say I've done something substantial with my life. I am the person who doesn't like coffee, and the sun gives me a headache. And I want more. And the reason we are the masses, the reason we keep living in this insatiable thirst never asking for a glass of water is paradoxically the very fact that we are the masses. I look to my left and there are people content with their way of living, and people who appear to be content with their way of living, and amongst me are the people who may not be content but live as if they were content, and to my right are the people who are content because they gave in to one bit of happiness.

And I feel inadequate. If everyone is seemingly satisfied, why should I ask for more? Those who did are no longer in sight, they are long gone, the stuff of legends or tabloids, nothing you can grasp or strive to. So when I should dare mention those cursed three words, I am received with a typical - that's all there is. That's all I can ask for. A good job, my health, family, friends, romance (assuming it comes along at one point or another), some people don't even have those. And since everyone else is content with this is what you get, or appear to be, or try to be, and since trying for more could cost me what little quota of the month of happiness I have, I recede. At best I can hope to push towards being one of those who insist on a sip to keep from emotionally dehydrating. Those who have dared ask for more, write self-help books and seminars about the joy of not needing anything more, but it sure is easy for them to say. Their more is this missionary work, serving as only artificial meaning or holy-grail for anyone else. And no matter how hard I try, I will never be them, genuinely happy with what there is. Perhaps I am spoiled by the plentifulness of the world, by the legends of those who dared and asked for it, and perhaps I'm just chemically incapable, something about insufficient seratonin in the brain.

But what really breaks me up is the fact that even if I should one day overcome these fears, and silence down the actual and virtual voices, even if I should surpass the "once" traps and brave the more, how I would I know where to start? What is this more that everyone speaks of? Surely it is different for everyone, but what is it for me? I am reminded of Scarlet Johansson's annoyingly impetuous Christina in Woody Allen's Vicky Christina Barcelona when she matter of factly and in a childlike manner declares "I don't know what I want. I only know what I don't want." And I don't want this. But like everyone else I'm driven by the guilt, no one else get's anything more. This is all there is. At least for me. At least for now. And If I quoted the ever neurotic Woody Allen I only be so fair to quote someone more optimistic - This is the hardest story that I have ever told. No hope, or love, or glory, happy ending gone forever more. And I feel as if I'm wasting. And I'm wastin' every day.

love me.

You Win Livejournal [Tuesday, October 6th, 2009
10:35am]
I was going to not renew my paid account because I hardly post here anymore but I miss my userpics and I'm annoyed I can't read way back on my friends' pages.

Fine. Take my money. See if I care. Okay lets say starting next week so the billing is for next month...
(please don't take my money :( I'm poor)
love me.

Twice [Tuesday, October 6th, 2009
10:20am]
(I thought there was no use cross posting notes from facebook but then I remembered there is so I'm gonna. You may choose to ignore. Will also start cross posting again on myspace so I can link it from my twitter. Synergy my friends - synergy).

In the past couple of weeks I've seen a little over a dozen films. Some of you who have yet to get to know me so well may be surprised, but fact is I like movies. I like the way the different arts mesh together into a super-creation and the way it pulls me out of my world and inspires me or at the very least quiets down the static for a short while. And sometimes when my voice is hoarse and flimsy, hearing someone else's is just what I need. It is like eggnog for the soul.

One film that stood out in particular is the moderately successful indie flick "Once". The story is of a street musician in Ireland who circumstantially crosses paths for what seems like a fleeting moment with a struggling young Czech woman. The characters have no names, and their tale has no beginning or end. It is no whirlwind romance, tear jerking tragedy or hilarious slapstick. It is life. It is a snapshot of everyone, anyone, at any time, with a beautiful and poignant soundtrack composed of original songs by first and last time actors (it is "once" after all) Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova.

The name of the film "once" refers to a phenomenon us artists know too well. It is the broken record playing that "once" I get this and that done, or "once" I save this much money, or "once" I catch a break, I'll do it. "It" is moving to New York or LA to pursue a full time acting career. It is going to the studio to record your music. It is going to more auditions, it is sending your manuscript out to publishing companies or literary magazines, it is putting up an exhibit of your art. And that once, once you unleash it, it infiltrates every other area of your life. Suddenly you'll go back to school "once" things at work calm down, and you'll tell the man you secretly love how you feel about him "once" the moment is right, and you'll have kids "once" you get settled in your life. And as that once spreads like an infectious disease, you wake up to find that life has passed you by and you're stuck at a job that has you shitting dust, and the person you just wanted a moment with is now having lots of moments with someone else, and you're too old, or too anything to really pursue your passions.

And before I get too depressed by my own writing to remember what my point was, I should remind you that it is never convenient to overcome your fear of change. It is like a bone in your throat and the more you try to swallow it, or even swallow around it, the more painful it becomes, digging into you so hard that you have difficulty breathing. Hesitation is evolution's way of telling us there are mountain lions outside of our caves, and I concur that without it you can get hurt or at the very least be slapped with a nice page straight out of the DSM IV. But hestitation is nothing more than the gag reflex when you take stick your hand down your throat to remove that bone. It's unpleasant but it passes.

She asked me one time what is the one thing that I can say 'once I have that' I'll be happy. I looked at her baffled. There is no one thing. There will always be something else. So we either find happiness in our own lives, or start doing the things that make us happy. Anything else is not living, just cheating death, and even that not very well. The word is an illusion, a siren call that will find you shipwrecked and drowning. It is always time and now it is my time to do the things that complete me. Well... that is once I figure out what they are
2 lovers - love me.

Just in case some friends here are not on facebook [Wednesday, August 19th, 2009
08:57am]
[ In love withSounds like | pleased ]

I have uploaded some clips from the official DVD of our production of RENT. Hope you enjoy :)

I'll Cover You Reprise
One Song Glory
Goodbye Love
Without You

More coming up soon :)

2 lovers - love me.

Measure Your Life in Love [Friday, July 3rd, 2009
17:42pm]
I'm pretty sure most if not all my friends are already on facebook, but just in case, I wanted to share with you this lovely video one of my cast members made...it's not everything but it's a beautiful summery of the show, and rehearsals and everything we've been through over the past few months...

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1197887147206&ref=nf#/video/video.php?v=1197887147206&comments

Can't believe it's over...
love me.

Less philosophically speaking... [Monday, March 30th, 2009
01:31am]
and in sync with the last entry (and this is information I spared from facebook), my admission is dependant on grades (at the moment I have the minimum requirement or a couple of points above it if you consider some general unrelated university courses into my average. I may be able to improve it by the end of the year, but considerations begin NOW), a personal interview (which I may or may not get depending on my status and the status of those competing against me for a spot in the department), and recommendations. Recommendations need to be field related (mentorship and guidance, or such related psychology type activity)and academic (2 of each at least). One of my biggest fears has been asking for those recommendations and not getting them. Field wise, I have a half of one (half meaning its impersonal, it's computer entered data about my work in some project), and one I'm hoping to get. Academically I didn't know who to turn. Supposedly only two lecturers know me well enough to recommend. The first is for last year's research paper which was read by the clinical department head, and I'm afraid it may seem like a conflict of interest to ask him for a recommendation that he later will have to review...The second is for this year's research paper, which the lecturer doesn't really know me yet. I though about also writing to some of the teachers in the smaller classes just in case, but we'll see. They may not even remember me. Interestingly enough, my current instructor for my research paper responded this to my asking him for the rec. - "Good! Drop by my office after the holiday and we'll fill it out!". Good? What does good mean? Is he happy I'm applying? Why is he happy? This process is bringing my neurosis to new levels (and my sleeping hours to below minimal requirements).

FYI about 200 people finish a BA from the university per year. Add about 600 more from colleges. Lets say about 10% (it may be more...it probably is) apply to graduate school. That makes 80. Now add those who graduated previous years and took a gap year or two. That adds at least 20. Now add those who graduated with a degree in psych or social work or something related (and have higher grades because this dept. has lower grades) and you have at least another 20. We're talking at the very least about 120 applicants per year. 12 are admitted. T-W-E-L-V-E. One out of ten chance. Yey for being average in a competetive field.
1 lover - love me.

The Born Identity [Monday, March 30th, 2009
01:26am]
(crossposted)

It's past one AM. After 5 hours of sleep, assuming I go to bed right away, I have to get up for an 18 hour day (at best. 8 for school, 2 of errands, 2.5 rehearsal, the rest traveling between one point to an other). And yet, I can't sleep. I can't breathe. Yet again. Throughout my life I have defined myself as an artist and a criminologist, long before I even began my degree, long before I even knew precisely what criminology is. About 1-2 years ago I had a crisis of faith resulting from various events in my life, which resulted in an identity crisis. I was ready to leave school and go study acting full time. And then, a percipitating turn of events that followed restored my faith and sidelined my art once again. Over the past couple of months I have been searching my soul on here with you, or on my own, to find a purpose. I couldn't find myself doing anything other than this. As the doors on my paths come to a close, and the deadline for graduate school registration is no more than a sleep away, I begin to lose my identity.

Once again, I want to be the bigger person, the mature whole, philosophical individual that says that we are not what we do. Unfortunately, I do not believe that. I am the effect I cause in this world. We spend most of our lives at our job. Most people change the pages on their calander. Some people change the money in their bank account. Few people change the world around them (I cringe before being as pretentious as to claim there were more than only a handful of people in history to change the world as a whole, so I'll settle for a respective, subjective world). So, though we don't like it, the work we do (whether voluntarily or paid) does define us.


Now I stand before you on a melting iceberg, and the sun of time is shrinking it as we speak. If I fail at the only things I have defined myself as, who do I remain to be? Who was I ever? I fear that when it comes to it, if I have to birth myself into a new identity it will be one I won't be able to live with. Changing the pages on the calander is simply not enough for me. It will be like radiation burning me inside, through the hole in the ozone layer this identity death is causing me.

Rationality insists that the verdict isn't yet given, nor will be for a few months. I have not yet failed, technically, and The Odds are nothing but a neat music band. And if I do, the newly born identity, might be better, more fitting, to me, and perhaps these are all right turns in the path to where I'm supposed to be. But as I lay awake, washed with fear of losing the only me that I have known, I can't help but settle that rationality can eat it. Today, I'm anxiety's bitch.
love me.

Fun project Day 2 [Wednesday, March 25th, 2009
23:50pm]
[ In love withSounds like | creative ]

So thank you to all who participated in the last poll. It was very helpful!!! who knows, if i become sucsessful maybe in a few years you´ll see your ideas win awards ;) Now for the next poll. When you watch a new tv show pilot with several characters. Which type of character introducing format keeps your interest for watching the next episode?

A) The narrarator/main character introduces the other characters in the first episode (example: How I Met Your Mother, Scrubs, Alias, Pushing Daisies, Chuck..."this is john, he is my brother, and he's on crack") B) The different characters are revealed one after the other within the first episode (example: Heroes) C) First episode only introduces well one or two characters and you get to know the other characters are the show progresses (example Lost) Thank you for your input!!!

What character introducing format most gets you to watch a show past its pilot?

A (narrarator intro)
2(22.2%)
B (consecutive intro)
0(0.0%)
C (slow unraveling intro)
5(55.6%)
D (other...please elaborate in comments)
2(22.2%)
1 lover - love me.

[Tuesday, March 24th, 2009
15:20pm]
So after a long time with writer's block I've decided to write. Something big. A project if you will. And I'm actually excited about it. If it's good it's going to be a smash hit I'm sure of it. However, partially because I'm finding my way out of this years long block, partially because I'm not too well informed in some things, and partially cause I'm just ubeer busy, I'm going to make it a collaborative effort. However, I'm keeping it away from facebook for now, becuse it's loosely going to be based on my experience with some friends who may or may not take offense to me making a joke so to speak of their drama.

So first order of business, I need your input (all of you who still haven't moved away to twitter or facebook). Mb>What is the most random/weird/ridiculous subject for a musical to be written about?</b> I'm talking a la the Producers' Hitler in Springtime. Go crazy.

P.s. I'm not writing a musical
7 lovers - love me.

My Stupid Mouth [Saturday, January 31st, 2009
00:00am]
[ In love withSounds like | embarrassed ]

As you get older in life, and you encounter more and more individuals, you find that it is more difficult to stay in touch with people from your past. And so you start screening the people you let in, and the people you let stay in. The problem is that other people have the same processes. And so it appears to me that it gets harder and harder to make friends, real friends as I age. It seems that I have to work harder for people to let me in enough to allow me to let them in.

And then, there will always be those 'who got away'. They are the ones that I wanted to, that I could have cared about but never got the chance. So you start to reason that some people are only meant to pass through and leave their track marks along the way. That may be the case but I've come to realize that it doesn't excuse me from trying. Trying to make a connection. At the end of the day that's what were all in this world for, and as a lover, an artist, I especially yearn for it. So I put myself out there, just a little bit at a time, hoping you will bite. It's easy to give up when you don't. But history taught me that the few and rare I didn't give up on, the ones I saw through and the ones I fought to keep in my life, have been the most rewarding in the end. So, I keep washing down my singed pride and brushing off the ashes.

I quote John Mayer often, it's true and often tired. The first song I heard of his however that had me stopping in my tracks is 'my stupid mouth'. At least once a week I think to myself 'Oh I'm never speaking up again...starting now," as I've also mentioned in recent notes. On days like this, I find it hard to remember what I'm fighting for, and whether it is a lost cause (see, I threw a Beck one too, to even it out). But I am fighting for love. Not romantic love (this time, anyway), just love. And that, that is the only cause worth fighting for.

Oh, it's another social casualty
Score one more for me
How could I forget
Mama said "Think before speaking"
No filter in my head
Oh, what's a boy to do?
I guess he better find one soon...

...One more thing
Why is it my fault?
So maybe I try too hard
But it's all because of this desire
I just want to be liked
I just want to be funny
Look like the joke's on me
So call me Captain Backfire

I'm never speaking up again
It only hurts me
I'd rather be a mystery
Than she desert me
Oh, I'm never speaking up again
I'm never speaking up again
I'm never speaking up again
Starting now..."

-John Mayer, My Stupid Mouth

love me.

Blame It On Me [Sunday, January 25th, 2009
00:57am]
(crossposted from fb/ms)

"It's a chronicle of failure foretold. A well-known fact you go for guys which you know you have no future with," she said nonchalantly, unaffected, as if she was saying that it is a well-known fact that I'm not very tall, or that I have brown hair. It was so matter of fact that I didn't even stop to think about it until hours later. In another lifetime I would've disputed it, or tried to paint it in more flattering tones (for instance I would've worn the "optimistic" coat quite well). But alas, like Freud, it's a theory that cannot be debunked.

I add a disclaimer in bold lettering and italics emphasizing the fact that this is not a conscious process. It does not cross my mind that the handsome bloke flirting with me who has disaster oozing out of his every pore, is an excellent candidate to break my heart. I would like to think my self-destructive masochistic mechanisms work more subtly than that.

The fact remains, however, that it is easier to fall for the unattainables. Contrary to popular belief, this is not because of the game, or the chase, the challenge or the "if it's broken let's fix it" syndrome, that men so much like to project on us women. In my case, at least, it's a matter of self preservation. It is much easier to blame a failed attempt at romance on its hopelessness than on yourself. Social psychologists call it augmentation which is when we add factors for attribution to reduce focus from the real reason. I do the same thing in school when I write papers two days before their due dates, or study poorly for an exam, in order to later feel like less of a failure when I flunk.

I suppose that is where the hopeless in hopeless romantic comes from. It's been a long time, if ever, since I have felt hopeful about love. Most days I wear jaded proudly, with lavish accessories of baggage to boot, but somedays I'm quite desperate to feeling hopeful. It's scary to feel like everything is falling into place, especially in romance, because it means you have so much more to lose by screwing up. When I used to play music competitively, there would always be that one phrase in the piece which I had problems with. Although by the time the concert or competition came around it was usually well rehearsed and played, as soon as I began thinking about screwing it up it would throw me out of focus and I would screw it up. Self fulfilling prophecy. Pygmalion effect. Murphey's law. You can call it Gladis for all I care. In fact, you don't have to call it at all, it comes all on its own. And it sucks. And so, going for the guys who can later share the blame for your failures is a great strategy all around. The only catch in that perfect plan is that I never find love. Oops?



Here we are again, and we're looking at each other
As if each other were to blame
You think you're so smart, but I've seen you naked
And I'll probably see you naked again
Milli Vanilli told you to blame it on on the rain,
But if you blame it on the rain, tell me what can be gained
So if all else fails, you can blame it on me.

If all else fails, you can blame it on me.
If all else fails, blame it on me.
If all else fails, you can blame it on me.....

...Well here we are and you're a hundred thousand miles away
They say that absence makes the heart grow fungus
I wax poetic while you're waxing your legs
And you say you think there's a traitor among us
If all else fails, you can blame it on me.

-Barenaked Ladies
love me.

Hittin´ That [Saturday, December 6th, 2008
01:58am]
If there´s something I hate is writing something profound, or seemingly profound (I realize the differences are quite vast) and having it disappear for technical errors. Clearly genious cannot be recreated. But I will try nonetheless. Lately it feels like I´ve been playing a pinata. It´s like life spins me around and around and when it stops I have to somehow successfully make a hit. Fact is however, that I´m dizzy and blind, and more often than not just hit myself on the head. But you know, even if I´m batting air, at least I´m batting and odds are if I bat hard enough, long enough, I will eventually hit something. I´m aweful at math and statstics and its quite possible that that is entirely false, but that ain´t going to stop me from waiting for that shower of candy.

As 2008 comes to an end, I realize it was probably my toughest year yet. Dumped just a couple of days before hand, I spent my new year´s eve crying at my folk´s home, alone. Perhaps it set the the tone for the entire year. Perhaps it was just the darkness before dawn. I know it sometimes feels like all my hardest isn´t good enough, but I know nothing else, and there is nothing better, so it´s all I got.

Last year I wrote:

How do you shake that feeling
That something in your life
Is not where it ought to be
You’re not where you’re supposed to be ...

...How do you shake that notion
That the person you’ve become
Is not who ought to see
At least on some degree...

Today it seems to me that the person I´ve become is in fact who I´m supposed to be, and that I cannot be anyone, or anything else but that person. But I see her in the mirror, a tool of a sort, and I look at that tool with big doe wondering eyes... I don't know what to do with it, how to use it...this me. So I spin...and I hit...and I miss....and I hope...that maybe in 2009 something will break through.
love me.

Shutdown [Sunday, November 16th, 2008
18:18pm]
It happens just like that, at work or school, social events or even at home. Suddenly I feel estranged from my surrounding.
Suddenly it feels like someone pulled down the switch, turned off the light. System shutdown. The darkness inside, it feels like I don't belong.
Suddenly I feel like I stand out, but not in a good way. And so, I become smaller in my mind, shrink inside myself, hoping to not get noticed. And as I pull away from those around me I want to scream, "it's not you! it's me! it's me!", but my voice just gets quieter and assumptions are made beyond my control. Often, if there's time, the relationships are salvaged somewhat as my mask of sanity waters down my insecurities. But, occasionally, when first impressions cannot be twice made, I miss the opportunity to make a connection with someone wonderfull.

I wonder sometimes how I make these very personal notes on a widely read forum, but then it occures to me (aside from the fact hardly anyone reads these post) that those who are already close to me will be not scared away so easily. And those who are not, well, they're probably not close enough for me to care. And if one person, somehow, understands something about me, some one person I might have otherwise lost in the fire, well then I'd already won.
1 lover - love me.

Love Art [Monday, October 20th, 2008
21:41pm]
(crossposted from facebook)
Since it seems there *is* something I give a @#$! about still, this is a silly plea from a silly girl, to help me in my life one of the few things (quite a sad and pittiful notion I admit) that still get me excited.
(edited to change icon to my new icon, see credit in keywords)

People often misunderstand what I love about movies, what about them enables me to sit for hours and watch film after film, what makes them repress my problems and make me feel just a tad better about my day.

For me movies are the ultimate form of art. It is a synergy of creation. Nowhere else will you find such a stew of talent. There are people who are writing so well that they sweep you away to another world, away from your life, away from your trouble, they make you think about it long after it's over, dream about it at night, often changing the way you look at things, all within two hours. There are people who's acting is so pure and heartfelt that you forget they are like you and me and put them on a pedestal like gods, or mistake their alter egos for their true identities. There are people who's cinematography is so magical that your eyes feel like you're having a party and they're the only and main guests, and they can eat all the cake they want. There are people who's music will rearrange your stomach contents, people who's set or costume design will make you burst into laughter or tears, and the conductor of this emotional symphony, the director, who has the rare ability to bring all this talent together into one message, one story.

Television shows, once a cheap form of entertainment, have become more and more in recent years a sort of film in chapters, like a book composed of many little stories all adding up to that grand ending that will leave you staring at the back cover for several minutes after the story is finished.

I watch a lot of movies (see my last note). I watch many television shows. They say you kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince. In this case I watch a lot of crap so that I can recognize something special, out of the ordinary when I see it. It's like an engaged couple taking a bite out of a dozen cakes before deciding which tastes the best, which is right for them. Granted, my bites out of these films and televisions shows are generally more along the size of a 5 course meal, but you get the metaphor. And in fact, I do believe that once in a long while I know when there's a spark, a magic trick or a chemical combustion that creates something spectacular, where all the components I mentioned earlier are perfectly aligned with themselves and each other.

One of the greatest of such creations that I have had the pleasure of being exposed to in recent years is the television show "Pushing Daisies". It doesn't make me bite my nails and count the days like Lost or Dexter, it doesn't make me laugh like How I Met Your Mother, but it does something else. It tickles my senses, hearing, seeing, tasting even, every moment, inspires me artistically, excites me intellectually. The dialogs are so clever I often find myself laughing 30 seconds too late. The visuals are so breathtaking I sometimes forget for a minute that somebody had to think about them, and somebody had to make them, and that those somebodies are quite remarkable. I got the memo, the storyline, the characters, and the execution is a bit quirky to say the least, and for sure not everybody's cup of tea. But, as it seems that this show is currently the most likely candidate for cancellation, I thought I would give this a try. If you have not seen it yet, give it a try, once or twice. DVR it if you must. If you have seen it and are already addicted, pass the message along to others.

Everyone and anyone knows we are living in a fast-paced media-frenzy world. If (or perhaps when) this show gets canceled we will go back to our dreary lives, with a little less smiles and a little less magic. It will likely be replaced by either a mind numbing reality show (and this coming from the mother of reality whores, yours truly) or a realistically depressing crime or medical related drama, as if there aren't enough dead people and disease on the evening news (again, coming from an avid watcher of said dramas). There are few moments of creativity, originality, uniqueness in our world in general, in art and in media in particular. Vote for the underdog, take a leap of faith, and try to savor the sweet taste of quirkiness for just a moment more so that I (and you) lose just a little of my (or our) cynicism once a week for 45 minutes. Love art. Watch Pushing Daisies.
5 lovers - love me.

Say What You Want To Say [Tuesday, October 7th, 2008
19:49pm]
Sometimes I wonder if I stopped writing because I stopped having something to say, or because I stopped knowing how to say it. I'm not sure which is worse. One would presume it would be not having anything to say anymore, but I suppose not knowing how to say something important is not being much better off. After all, the end result is just the same.

Perhaps it's the notion that I have nobody to say those things to. People around me evolve in different directions, rapidly and unstoppably. I too evolve but it's like watching a cheesy slow motion scene. It makes noticing things easier, but you wish it would just end already and move on to the next scene.

There's an old saying that says "write about what you know". Anything else doesn't cut it. I am argumentative, I'll be the first to admit it. People tell me, somewhat lovingly, somewhat in annoyance that I think or I act like I know it all. Truth be told, the older I get the less I know. I become more and more uncertain about things, about myself, about myself in regards to things. Some days it feels like there's nothing I know for sure. I think I love chocolate, and I love the idea of romance (the way it's depicted in my dreams and not so much the way it plays out in my life), and anything beyond that is fair game.

It occures to me sometimes that by my age my mother was married, and expecting me. In fact, she wasn't expecting me. She was probably expecting anything but me. She was expecting a baby but I came as a surprise. I come as a surprise to myself so it's understandable. But sidetracking aside, she was in a sense starting a life. She too was young and confused but not too scared to make a move. I take hours, days, weeks even to make a single move and then I freeze. I regret any choice I make instantly, whether it be good or bad.

John Mayer sings "stop this train" and Jack Johnson wants it to breakdown, so that he can get off. My train stops at every station and I wish it would just reach its destination. I'm tired of thinking, of waiting, of stopping to second guess every moment in my life. I'm tired of the confusion and although I know uncertainty keeps things alive instead of me withering down in a painfully expected routine, I sometimes wish I knew just one thing for certain. Keeping with the metaphors, Ben Folds thinks that we as passengers on this train don't change anything. When I do get off this train I want to leave a big old butt mark, some cookie crumbs on the table perhaps. Someone will always sit in my spot, but I hope they at least know I was there. I suppose that's why I'm scared to think I've stopped having things to say, or stopped knowing how to say them. Perhaps, it's neither. Perhaps, I've just been concentrating so hard on how to keep the train moving that
I've not had time to think about what happens once it stops for good.
love me.

The New Sad [Wednesday, October 1st, 2008
23:07pm]
[ In love withSounds like | sad ]

It occured to me the other day that I don't know how to talk about feelings. When I discuss emotions I do so in a very rationalized and intellectualized matter, as if telling a story from the outside looking in. I philosophize my pain, making it pretty and polished instead of ugly and raw how it should be, how it is. I wonder sometimes if it's always been like this, or if it's a talent I picked up along the way. When I use metaphors and imagery I do not have to say I am sad. I am sad. I don't know why I cannot say it. I don't know why I cannot say it to my friends, to my family or even my therapist. I don't even know why I am sad. But I am sad. I am empty and hollow, and feel like gravity is pulling me down (for a lack of words I use ones by others). I am sad and I am scared. I'm scared to be with myself. This is why I am constantly busy, but here we are on holiday, and everyone is happy, eating, resting, and all I want to do is cry. I just want to say that. I am sad and I want to cry. But all that comes out is cheap explanations that explain nothing, trying to make sense of my mess of a self.

1 lover - love me.

[Wednesday, September 24th, 2008
08:38am]
Hey so I have some updates coming up from Turkey and pictures and all, it's just been hectic...work, exams, work, VACATION, and then the day I got back from vacation I went straight from the airport to work, audition preparation, exam, sick part 1 (stomach flu), sick part 2 (sinus infection) (simultaniously mind you), work, work, work (what, it's my birthday? well, no time for that!)

Please dont think I've neglected yall again I'm just trying to pull things together in this crazy life of mine
5 lovers - love me.

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