Ad 2:
2016-06-24 21:28:32 (UTC)

hey, hi, also

"Sunspots in the House of the Late Scapegoat" by Modest Mouse [I used to hate this song and now – it's cool. Also, it's on an album called The Fruit That Ate Itself so. Double points.]

it was on the rotating eyes
it was all on the same postcard
it was all on the same damn shirt
said to sleep in the same Sear's camp house
it was all in the great state parks
it was all on the same Greyhound
it was all so many miles
beneath the dirty brown dirt
twenty miles down the islands
the biggest mall on Earth
it was all in the same rest stop
it was wall on the same damn shirt
it was all on the same Greyhound
in the house of the late scapegoat
be aware the paint's still peeling
all muscle cars made of lead
I got myself a fine fine fine fine friend
it was all in the next gray ghost
it was all in the same damn place
the parts to pound attractive
your feeling you owe on your size is bleeding

June 24, 2016 Friday 9:29 PM

Wow! I hate my writing! I realized this re-reading some of the stuff I've written (both from a year ago or from like... last month).

That's okay.


Today: hung out with Laney, as planned, and 'twas pleasant 'cept I got my period RIGHT before going to her house and was very annoyed 'cause. Really? When do I ever go swimming? Never, is the answer. THe ONE day I plan on swimming, and you do THIS? Thanks, body.

Haha. I went swimming anyway. And, body. I forgive you, mostly because my period is pretty much on time. I knew to be expecting it anyway. I just sort of forgot my ovaries are a thing so.

Wait, what? Why am I writing?

I have no thoughts in my head.

That's... vaguely depressing?

Oh shit my pills! I forgot to take my pill today damn it.

Anyway. I'm all good. I feel pretty okay and non-anxious and I'm wearing a dress (it was my sister's – it shrunk in the wash so it fits me now, as long as I don't lift my arms, as then you can kind of see my underwear and. Okay).

Things are. Good. Which is never interesting, but. I don't know. That is the state of things.


11:07 PM

I went to Polly's today (piano teacher) because on Tuesday, the day of my regular lessons, I was late and we only had like twenty minutes to practice.

BUT: today. I went around noon and some older lady was there. She was maybe in her fifties or sixties, I don't know. Pale skin, freckles a ton, sagging on the arms, even around the elbows which somehow I found.. strange. She had an old face and until just now, I kind of assumed it had always been old but now I'm thinking maybe she'd been pretty once?

I can't remember any specific features of hers, though. Just that her hair was red and her shirt was maybe royal blue, purse white. Or black. Mmm...

The lady was nice, is all I know.

I mean I ended up talking to her briefly because Polly is talkative and she's also very good at including everyone in a conversation.

(We were on Polly's second floor, with the... petite grand piano? On the first floor, she has a spinet and a baby grand... I like the second floor, though. She has one entire wall covered in glass doors, which lead out to a porch. It overlooks the woods/creek, all dead and brown and skinny-like, but I like it. It's very much Home.)

I passed the lady-with-the-red-hair-and-maybe-royal-blue-shirt and she noticed I was holding, on top of my books, the sheet music for Moonlight Sonata and was all, "Oh, I love that song! Will you play it?"

And I was like, "Sure!" and I did but. I don't know, everything makes me nervous, so my hands were shaking kind of violently, haha. Also, both ladies were peering over my shoulder as I played. Polly was talking and so was the other lady, and she also hummed along with my playing for the first few measures.

I messed up more than I would've on my own, on really stupid things, like octaves. Octaves are so easy but I'd accidentally miss it by one note or I'd slip off the key 'cause. My hands. Violently shaking.

Those two ladies are so nice and unthreatening. I will never understand my stupid fight-or-flight reactions. Timed so inappropriately.

"Is she playing this in the recital? You'd have to shorten it right?" is what the lady-I-don't-know (maybe her name was Caroline?) asked Polly. The recital's on Sunday.

"Yes, yes, you'd have to shorten it. Someone else is playing it. They only have half the first page done."

"She should play in the recital!"

"I knoooowwww," something like that. But, like. I get that nervous even when someone I know really well is listening to me play. Imagine me touching a foreign piano (a STEINWAY!! I get way too excited about this stuff) in front of like ninety people.

Oh wait! I don't have to imagine! Because I did it, like two years in a row. And then I stopped, because it freaked me out so much. I cried in the bathroom one year. I think I was twelve. A girl came in and told me I did good and I remember being so grateful, and kind of really embarrassed that I was covered in tears in front of another human being.

"She has very nice hands. Piano hands," is another thing the lady said. ??? !!!!! I love her. That's it. I just. Love her.

"Oh, I knoooowwww," said Polly, "Oh, she is just very pretty. Have you seen her eyes? They're gorrrrgeous."

Listen. Is it just the warm air? That makes people so lovely? Or am I just in a ridiculously good mood?

This is what keeps me from hating the world and everyone in it. Even with all the death that has been happening lately.

(My dad's friend's funeral is. Soon I think? He died a few days ago after getting in a bike accident like last week. He hit his head, was a vegetable, they said. My dad expresses sorrow in strange ways. I already knew this, since my dog died and all, but. It always throws me off guard. I almost think he's joking... It'd make me angry if I knew the guy who died, but I didn't. Maybe I met him once but. Still. He had a family. I hope they're all right.

Imagine sitting by someone's dead body for days. Heart still beating, but knowing they'll never wake. That's insane and sick and amazing and. Humans. I want to dissect them all. Without, y'know. Killing them)

(Polly told me about her time as a... funeral person-y thing. Where she prepared bodies for funerals. Put stuff in their bodies, took stuff out, sewed them up. She worked on, "the Lockerbie kids. Do you know who they are?" I said no, and she explained that they were from Syracuse University, on a flight somewhere in Scotland. It crashed, bodies rained down on a golf course. "When the bodies came in, we just stared. We had no idea what to do with them." Polly said that they didn't explode on impact. But everything in their bodies was just liquefied. "They had no /bones/. If you touched 'em, they'd have bounced like jello." and she went on like this. "They had no /faces/." I imagined they'd've caved in.)