the diary of anais nin

very tranquil and balanced right now.
i had been feeling very not so,
i had been reading this biography of anais nin that's like 1800 pages,
a tombtome, a paperback one,
and i was digging my own i think...wandering around looking at pictures
wondering if they're mirrors...

the beginning was nice all
about her diary keeping, being young
trilingual and in cuba

marrying young,
crushing on her cousin...

but after that promising beginning,
just all melodrama and sex,

incest,
hurting other people,
sexviolence
and it was really UPSETTING me
i see now.

biographies are fiction-non-fiction,
i should stick to one or the other.

then i was in the bath,
feeling really neither here nor there
and unsure of myself.

so i got out,
opened the front door,
and chucked the biography into the street.

now i feel really quite nice
and snug in my life.

cram it, apple!

Well It has finally happened. the dreaded day has arrived and stuck it's wet finger in my week's ear. Today is a black day in allison history. The iPod has finally murdered, nay, slaughtered my love of music.

i knew it would happen eventually, it was only a matter of time. clearing song after song from my playlist i realized the iPod had transformed my entire music collection into one giant mix CD i made for myself that i can't stand anymore and though i tell other people my mixes are the shit, i silently know they're kind of lame.

Thanks Apple Systems, my soul takes another hit as you disable my love of music. hands to sky what won't you take from me.

i no longer care for music. i would skip every song if i could. and have been. and will continue to. for all eternity. because there is nothing that i want.

and i blame the iPOD. it's selection, it's timing, it's program for complete randomness, when we all know it's not random what the ears want. no regard for my preferences, the weather, the time of the day, the day of the week (though it did often play manic monday on mondays).

we used to go for walks, my iPOD and me. or shall i say may iPod and i becaues that's what we were like one mind, like the pod was an extension of myself. often all i wanted was to walk around listening to the music i loved so dearly. those times are over. the thrill is gone.

and it's not that i haven't added music i've downloaded. I have. i'm not a jerk. but not at a rate which exceeds the rate at which i become sickened by things.

perhaps this rate is constant, i know i'd like to think so.

re-edit this allison.

does anyone know where carol finch's grave is so i can go there
and throw rotten tomatoes at it.

read em and deep, baby,
read em and deep.

i don't think i react in the same time frame as everyone else,
like it takes longer for the thoughts to diffuse and stretch and get to where they're going.
"oh i get it now" i say to the broken air.
and it just stares at me in disbelief.
because it knows it's like hours after the joke landed.

i'm certainly not competent in any sense.
but then maybe i'm competent with more senses.
i'm not so much fast on the uptake
but certainly admirable on the downswing.


and i change my mind when i'm writing.
i may like you well enough in our time together
but who knows what terrible things i will have to say about you
when my hands have the action.

so happy when hands know what they're doing.
little hand-brains in every knuckle.
they're so intuitive, my hands.

i will probably not think much at all
during our actual conversation.
you will rarely find me broaching new subjects
i have not already toyed with at home.
i will pretend i'm really listening
but i'm more absorbing, taking away.

not the slightest interest.
until interest develops.
i find it hard to be enthused.

once in a while i will be 'on' and we will have a good time.
then my mind again will hibernate
after it has gathered enough interesting sticks that i can be sure
it will not shit all over the place.
tell me if you think i'mgettingbetterallthetime.

fairy godmonster, i could use a boon.


i have loved and grown cold to someone before.
it's nice, in a way.

and awful.
but nice too.
knowing how much of who someone is to you
is based on your conscious decision
to love them.


it's okay if i am like a word you're not sure how to spell,
and thus avoid.

it strikes me first the violence of it
then the awesome power
of how it is so lovingly 3-D.

scared straight at kev's work.

so i am coming to realize that california is fundamentally asterisk different asterisk.

i went to kevin's work last night (Mighty club) after my night out, to sort of pick him up (though i have no means of transportation), but forgot that though Mighty stays open until 4 am, you can't drink after two. time i arrived? 2:30. so crap, and it was house music, a very oddddd crowd that i don't think could/would happen on the east coast, and certainly not in philly. and i had to wait an unspecified amount of time for kevin to clock out.

i hope everyone there was on ecstacy. i hope i hope. and the atmosphere made me feel both extremely exhausted and like i was about to be the victim of gang violence.

text message to gaelan: oh crap, it's someone's birthday and it's like the rave equivalent of applebee's in here.
Re: Run!
text message to gaelan: i did i bolted i coldcocked someone and saw the trippy lights streak victory in my peripheral vision.

and then i dislodged a piece of i don't know oregano or something from my tooth/gum, but this shit was sharp like sharpened friggin oregano, meant as a hit on some italian mafioso type that ended up on my pizza accidentally, and i thought my mouth was falling apart momentarily. trippy. but then i was like okay this is why i am so on edge right now, is that i've had oregano shrapnel lodged in my gums. but i was wrong. dead wrong.

3 people talked to me that night and it was exactly like being visited by the unearthly ghosts of Stupid past present and future.

i was no longer comfortable scowling by myself. because i had met "Joel".

i had already picked him out as the ingredient i hated most in a soup of hatred that i was feeling for the crowd.

everyone wanted to and DID touch me. some random couple came up to me to talk to me about how everyone was touching me, especially on the head, but i knew it was just an excuse for them to touch me in reenactment. why i do not know.

and i was all like "shhhh! i am trying to watch the movie about supercool graphics!" that was playing on the wall/screen, but they wouldn't listen. they intruded, they sat, they touched, they spoke.

i blew a bubble with my gum and someone found it appropriate to sit down next to me and say "awesome". i put that gum on the crust of my stale pizza while i chomped and watched the massacre of what i knew of dancing.

if you thought about it as a comedy routine, it was pretty funny. a chubby girl in a furry white hat, a white fishnet dress, and weird furry white legwarmers. and why did that make me so happy. and why did i love her so much.

"what the hell is going on here. in this room where i am. with this guy". i cannot tell you how many times i had this thought last night.

and like weird with the costumes.

life the rave password rave.

and seriously what the hell were you thinking when you put that on. and i'm like "hey, that guy is super cute!" just because he's not dressed like some sort of goth jester but he's not! he's not super cute i just feel like maybe he might not be so quick to touch me, respecting the same rules of personal space boundaries that i do. that the world does. or so i thought.

hats are a bad move.

and why are you talking to me i'm wearing curdoroys for chrissakes and a granny sweater.

do i LOOK like i wanna party with you?

you want to get me, to make me join your side, but i will never join your side because your side is idiotic.

some sort of bizarre interpretive dance with a bass beat.

is that a maid uniform? jesus lord.

i'm like a nerd, i long to shy away. i don't know if i'm hungry i don't know if i'm sorry but baby all i need to do is i'm like a nerd i long to shy away.

thank you shania or whatever.

i think

i think we all died in 2005,
i think we all died in 2005, and we all just think we're still living,
i think we all died in 2005, the world ended and no one knows
because i haven't written well since.

are you there voltron it's me margaret

we saw that flying saucer again today.
oo oooooooooooooooooooooo h
this is the color red.

(my favorite complete journal entry.)


from the floor archives, march 2005:

reflections on the weather and other tyrannies
wish it would hurry up and get warm.

i need to soak my love in the sun. see your beard

burst into flames over a glass of cool lemonade

(with a real dead lemon in it!),

aggravated by the sun's fury

and mine.

when you glow i'll glow hear me?

writing with my feet

was an unexpected failure,

peculiarly i thought it would come naturally to me.
kevo,

there is the punkrock drumbeat to consider.

(in life).

i LIKE to hear it,

what does that mean?

all grit and grind the guitar.

notlived feelings buzzing around,

gets so a girl can't think or fuck

or hit apostraphes properly.

there's something about the warmth, though.

can't sweat it if you don't get it.

the solitary o is satisfying

as ashing a cigarette in deviled eggs.
o.
dear octavius,
o.
love most sincerely,
a.

using one's intials is an excercise in power, don't you think ?
---
from the floor archives, 2005:
this is a business letter without the proper attire.
black tie.
whatnot.
imagination is a frustrated memory.
so is love
oh by the way,

how's your memory these days?
curious as a dead cat,
Reno who imagines love (worosei !)
ps. and will you be breaking into my apartment tonight?

are you there voltron it's me margaret:
excerpts from the floor archives, March 3rd 2005

i fear this thing is running out of ink and will be nonreplenishable.
do you think it is morally wrong to try to make a vegetarian gumbo?
i fear it just might be.
Orrie Kelly--the madmen.

i think i have a severely limited vocabulary.

compared to what i ought to have.

which are the only comparisons i'm comfortable with.
i fear it will only degenerate in the presence

of those i've come to think of

as the illiterati.

i've done a big fat nothing since i left you, octavius.


i won't even try to interest you, o.

still have not located the apostraphe.

yours,
a.

"wait. are you being sarcastic?"

katkamukh--mouth of a crocodile.
soochi--needle.

conversations with a wooly mammoth.