I will not do it. It's immoral and ugly and were it a man I would kill him. I will not let any smoky affection tendrils escape my comfortable shell of numb. Ha! It's not so bad. Until last week it was unusual for more than ten words to be shared between me and either of my guardians on any given day. It's actually kind of nice to have dialogue again. But I shouldn't get to used to it. My brother will return to college in a few weeks and there, any conversation will cease.
Well, I suppose I should report the Christmas yield.
Books:
Collected Poems - Sylvia Plath(finally, Jesus, I've been pining after this book for ages.)
The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway
High Fidelity - Nick Hornby
Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess
East of Eden - John Steinbeck
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand
I also received sixty five dollars in bookstore gift certificates. The results of which, so far are...
Slaughterhouse-Five - Kurt Vonnegut
The Virgin Suicides - Jeffrey Eugenides
The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
Me Talk Pretty One Day - David Sedaris
Cds:
Sisters of the Red Death - Vendetta Red
Hail to the Thief - Radiohead
The Bends - Radiohead
The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill - Lauryn Hill
The Doors - The Doors
Morrison Hotel - The Doors
L.A. Women - The Doors; and I bought
Lifted - Bright Eyes
Well, that pretty much was my Christmas gifts. Oh! I nearly forgot to mention the first season of (the American) The Office (with Steve Carell). If you've never seen the show, go find it and watch it. I swear to god that show is perfectly crafted to fit my sense of humor. Absolutely hilarious.
I had a satisfying Christmas. I should enjoy it, chances are it's my last. I'm not lamenting, merely stating. I'll probably come back and visit my parents next year, but I really don't even want gifts. I didn't really want them this year, but who could say no to eighty dollars worth of new books? Certainly not me.
After momentary contemplation I've come to the realization I am not a Christian because I don't want help. I don't want any assistance from some sort of preternatural being in my life. I want to keep the rights to what I win, not give credit to something that could very well be merely dwelling in my imagination.
With the wick of a cherry scented candle
Dwindling like the rays of a forlorn eclipse,
I don't want anything but to twist these
Blankets around my torso/legs and rest.
I crave nothing more than soft light and
Strange expressions of how I feel. That
Is mine, the ability of flowing poetry into
Motions both clandestine and glimmering
With cheek. I can only give you the same.
Sorry, that just popped out of me. I haven't written a poem in a few days, so I can hardly expect them not to begin catching up soon. In my mind, all commodities are limited.
Wow, until I began writing this entry I hadn't realized how much I missed words. Well, I have nothing else to say and I want a cigarette, so I'll leave you with this quote.
"Well, she's fashionably lean
And she's fashionably late
She'll never rank a scene
She'll never break a date
But she's no drag
Just watch the way she walks."
sylvia plath
