2010-04-24T21:10:00.001-07:00

I posted more below.

2010-01-20T00:50:00.000-08:00

I haven’t checked to know for sure but I think I have 78 organs in my body. This might sound kind of weird but I keep my thoughts in them because they don’t all fit in the one they are supposed to. Also, I have to keep double the amount of thoughts as the average person since I met you. I keep all my thoughts for you and all the thoughts you should be keeping for me. It’s hard at times only because I wish I had more than 78 organs or because I wish you would keep some of the thoughts you have for me in your own organs so I wouldn’t have to make room all the time. Sometimes you can measure my reasoning to the amount of battery percentage left on my Mac Book (sometimes). Other times you can measure it to the sounds that come out of my ears and not into them. Anyway, I’m sitting in one of those booths again. I picked the side by the window you might walk by and if you see me you might think about me and then I would get 1/100th of a pound lighter. So obviously I’m doing everything I can to lose part of this anchor.

Today I went to class late but that’s not weird because of no reason, which became a reason so my teacher Ernest Gentry doesn’t care anymore. He told me to go somewhere that I could kick something, or to sketch something so I don’t ruin the clay. I told him I was just going to leave. He said, “How old are you?” I said, “23” and he said well than you have a lot more bad days waiting.” I wonder what would happen if I told him I was 24. Or what if I told him I was 22. Would that change the number of bad days significantly? He gave me a high five and didn’t fake me out like Aaron and then I came here and wrote this. I saw Laura/Olivia but she didn’t see me, I saw the haircut I want and always used to have, I saw the wind even though most people think you can’t see the wind, I saw a hat and wish I didn’t lose mine. I saw litter, I saw Alex, I saw A different Alex, I saw the same kid twice, I saw two Saabs which made me think I was in the city but I wasn’t, I didn’t see the sun, I saw red and blue and yellow and green, but mostly I saw green. A good sign. So, I saw the sign.

Most kids aren’t my age cause if they were they wouldn’t be kids. And if they were my age they would have a degree already, then they would have a job too and if they had a job it probably wouldn’t be tasting meat. I’m here and listening to the clarinet. Soon I’ll be in a solitary booth playing solitaire. My Mac Book percentage is at 12.

Everything.

Like when you get inside the recycling bin—Jumping violently to compress things and make room. They are like that. They’re folded papers folded as many times as they will fold and forced inside the book of a reluctant saint. A pinched braid that was once thick, unmanageable (dark) hair. I keep them smashed. I keep them smashed down in my feet. In my ankles. My knees. I’m scared they might rise and spill out my mouth, my nose. Eyes. Ears. Mouth. I can see words spying through the skin of my legs when extremely pale at the end of winter. They read things like: “No lunch today?” & I’ve never longed for a baby so badly. In mid February of last year my right leg in particular, had, “Please. I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.” Written all over it. And the bottom of my feet. Even in the summertime you can make the words: It’s hard to want so much more. They build though. Seems my bones won’t grow enough. They climb up to clog my throat. I can’t keep them down more than that. I don’t know how they have woven patterns through my ribs; so thick, so heavy by now. The constrictor to this heart beating—unless I see you anywhere, then I can never keep it in control. I am panicky. I know it only takes a duet of hands to sneak their way around each number and that’s when everything will come pouring out like my mouth was always the wide spout of a teapot. I know the hour is fleeting because my hands are black in the mornings—parallel with the piercing whistle anticipated yet still wincing when it comes (and it does come).

Like kissing.

The sound the clock makes at night is the sound of two different peoples eyelashes pressing down on one another a couple of times in a row.

This is why I don't write stuff on here.

They are talking about God. I think. A korean student fills his cup with soda. I know this cause the ice machine drowns out the purpose of life and revelation. Repetition of a looped Em chord creates rhythm for the room, but now that has just changed, "and my body it leaks like a sieve." A cleaner guy walking around, wondering I'm sure, what I'm reading or why I haven't bought a cup of coffee yet. I won't because I don't drink coffee. I think they're closing soon. He could use a new broom, the one he is using looks like it just woke up. Sadly, I'm waiting for 10:00 P.M. I'm lonely here. Not exactly sure if this town is good for me. I'm learning though. Learning of a heavy heart and different sense of insecurity. Everything is strange always. I struggle to find thought of contentment. I dress up everyday. I am buried in analytical thinking and I know it's unhealthy to entertain myself with thoughts like that. I'm not sure why those two girls are holding hands and speaking so softly. They don't wear makeup but they do wear Columbia parkas. I used to own a blue one, I really don't know what happened to it and think about it now that the weather is the way it is. I think about writing a lot, writing about how people might tell I'm thinking always because of the look on my face but the lack of verbalization. I don't talk much but I can. I can talk about foster care at the wrong times, or I like to think I could carry on a decent conversation about my favorite novel, but nobody I know has ever read it. Lately I've been surprising myself with the pronunciation of words that originate from France. Also, I've been thinking about reading newspapers that are respected throughout the country. On Sunday Jon taught me something about light sources. I'm actually growing out my hair. Really, I am. Not even a threat. I keep thinking thats my ride.

It's not my ride or my pocket would have vibrated by now.

An American, an Argentinean, and a Tongan. They are talking so loud about it. It's fine by me because it makes the staccato of Regina Spektor minimal. The God fearers are leaving just as my cursive got really good. He switched from lazy ass broom to mop head. Yesterday I started reading an article written by Monte J. Brough. It's essentially about the two gardens. I'm at the part where we reflect on the law of sacrifice. He compares the interpretation between Judaism and Mormonism. A scripture taken from the Book of Mormon describes a more significant law for our day--"a broken heart and a contrite spirit." Believing that this law is true I have been attempting to apply it to my life through actions and thoughts. I think a lot about spiritual things and where I see progression it develops my interest. The giant fan has totally muted the ethnic trio and the music overhead. She is in my phone as Muh Ree and she just called me. I regretted answering, thought it was my ride. It's 10:16 but nothing. Must have forgotten. I walked home listening to Casimir Pulaski Day.

There is an entire row of books on sociology of the environment and natural resources. It's interesting to me all of a sudden because I don't really care but I do, part of the reason I always turn the lights off when I leave the room. Anyway, all that stuff is boring. Today I went to a pawn shop. When you walk in it's weird. The doors are thick wood and there are no windows on them. No needle nosed pliers. I walked down the back isle out of curiosity. I didn't need any guitars or action figures Yoda. Surprised, I saw a whole slew of black leather jackets! Thought about looking at them, but I was too nervous to touch them so I didn't. I hate the feeling of pawn shops. It's mostly depressing and suggests distraught lives. I fell down outside next to the car door. I didn't get up because I couldn't stop laughing. Icy. I fell right down.

I thought I should limit myself to 10 Red Vines. Lost count. Just wrapped in a reflection of Friday night. We were all just laying around after the party, people talking, laughing of course, and a constant clown could be found somewhere in the boat house. Seemed that everyone was without a care. But I cared about something. Natalie. I've seen exposed scars on her chest and spine. Something in my head drops to my feet making my boots heavy whenever she laughs and smiles. I heard she stopped treatment. She will grow new hair. Anyway, she was laying on her side. Head pointed toward me and face toward satisfied voices. She was in blue. She was pretty. Her skin was clear and I could tell soft. Same black hat, small face, small thin lips. I thought about a lover. I thought she needed one. I thought someone would be fortunate to love her--to be with her for that much longer, it would be hard but worth it. I thought of why she wasn't thinking. I thought it must be too hard to think. I could tell she wasn't thinking because she was where I was.

Ah. I can finally let my hair down and take off these wet boots. They have been making my feet cold all day. I’m going to try and write this and attempt to get my feelings right at the same time. I don’t know what’s going on in my head, but I think there could be a couple of things. I am at sea, exceptionally lonely. I know you can think of a million things to say that would declare null and void those feelings, but It’s just the way it is here. I’ve given up on a lot of things and found an obsession with others. I can’t stop studying principles of the Gospel, thinking of ways to magnify my calling, and reading the scriptures. I’m thinking of potential in others, a future of security and the concept of eternal families. This has, I think, taken a toll on my character. I find myself battling the absence of similarity between others and myself. I can’t relate anymore. I know too much.I’m thinking differently. It’s strange. I feel progression but equally, separations from everything I’ve ever known.

Sarah