the static between lines' Journal

luck and good shoes
You made her feel SO sad
OHHHHHHHHHHHHOHHHHHHHOHHHHHHHH jamie's CRying!

I think once I marry van halen, I'm going to go off to the west. I'm not exactly sure where the west is... probably somewhere west of Philadelphia, but not California! I hate california and I've never even been there. It just seems too predictable in a scattered way. Which is the Worst kind, you see. Me and Van will go off to some crazy little place in Arizona or New Mexico and we'll live like king and queen in a village full of sand. We can blow it all down until everywhere else is covered in sand and we can call ourselves the city of salvation.

It's brilliant! We'll be cowboys with big brimmed hats and ankle boots with silver buckles. I'll have a hip flask and a cigarette holder and I won't smoke on the street because 'LADIES don't smoke on the street.' But it won't matter because there won't be any streets. It will be all country with lots and lots of people just hanging out. Kind of like New Orleans I assume.

If I don't marry Van Halen, I'll go off on my own adventure to New Orleans. I'll hop a train if I have to, but I'll get down there and sit out in a field all day. I won't need a house, too nice of weather anyway. I can practice voodoo, eat fried chicken, and listen to Zydeco all day and night. Blues at the bar. That's not too far off from where I am now. Adventures do come at strange times, but what better time than the present!? And that's what it is isn't it? A present! A treat to myself and my lazy ass. How I rode in on it, is still a mystery. Luck and good shoes.

Current Music: jamies crying

gum smacking
Flip out the cash and deal out the cards
time to split from police cars.
She ran out the back door and fled through the garden,
they drove off in search but she was too far then.

Where's the stake out?
Where's the drill?
Where's my lunch break?
She's out for the kill!

Around the corner there was a station,
filled with liquor and dark light.
She knew no other way of action,
so she chose to avoid the fright.

She bought a pack of pink bubble gum,
she thought it best not to be seen,
so around the corner she blew her bubbles
sitting still from behind a magazine.

An hour later they came behind her,
she didn't see from sleeping eyes,
they took her out from wild danger,
still she spoke from her life as a stranger.

Where'd you go? Who'd you see?
Can we talk? Just you and me?
but the car keeps driving,
solidarity.

destination A.
It has been brough upon my attention that traveling to Africa may not be out of the question. Due to secrecy, I can not say the entirety of my plans however I will say... Kenya isn't out of the picture!

Today is a beautiful Wednesday afternoon. I am listening to Antibalas Afro Beat Orchestra. I reccomend it heavily. This morning was brisk with the cool air of fall pondering it's way through August. I sat outside on the screened in porch and smoked a cigarette with mom while reading the paper. She told me of her adventures on the psyche ward (no names ofcourse) and I got myself together for the rest of the week.

Call GED people tomorrow to sign up for test on September 2nd.
Meet Zack downtown at two.
A meeting tonight at eight p.m.

Mom bought me a helpful little math book for school. It's pre algebra geared toward middle school girls written by Whinnie Cooper from The Wonder Years. It has examples of cooking with fractions and common factors (according to your crush) and how to find prime numbers etc. It's actually pretty cool and I can understand it for once. Ahh the remedial life.
Africa will not be surprised.

Moving Back to Charlottesville
So I moved back almost three weeks ago to live with my mother for around six months to get my GED. It's strange being back at Mom's, I feel like I haven't really been myself since I last lived with Mom almost eight years ago. I think I belong with family.

Purple cut flowers are poking out of a glass jar on the counter. Wild and bushy with thin scraggly vines that crawl out of the water. Just the way we like them. The city mailed us a nice little letter saying if we didn't do something about the massive, overgrown, vines, than we'd have to pay a fine.

Does anyone know that techno song that kind of sounds like mstrkrft would do it, but they don't. It's called ''saturday.''

Current Music: Linus Loves First Base

toast and jazz
It's somewhat of a tuesday morning and I'm listening to old jazz and watching Betty Page. Appointment is at three with the doctor. Possible game of scrabble with nadier and danny at their house later on tonight. Other than that, what's a girl to do? sit in her bathrobe and watch betty page of course.

finally going back home
"What are we if not just chemicals?"
Nothing. Niccolo was my partner in crime as I used to call him. The one who would sneak off on silly adventures to the park at midnight or go traveling to chinatown to bust into the budhist temple. He was the one I could buy random trinkets with and hang them from the ceiling. He was the one I did heroin with. Not just that. The small things were first. The trips to late night parking garage adventures. He made me feel special and that spark in me came alive again which I hadn't felt since I had left c-ville. Philadelphia was a cold place before he walked into my apartment on bainbridge.

My mother's house is where it all started. A long time ago. It was where I was most happy until I was a teenager. On medication. On drugs. Hooked on sex. then she was my enemy. I moved to dad's when i was fourteen almost fifteen and haven't been as happy ever since mom's house.
So I am moving back. Finally. after six/seven years I need to go home. my real home. with ann landers...now dear abby... toast, schedules, things that matter to me. friends, (real friends) books, adventures, errands, family.

I told Niccolo I was moving back. He didn't take it well. He is alone. COmpletely and I understand. His friends have turned to heroin addicts and while we are now off it, they are still on. They steal, cheat him,and yell at him when they don't get there way. He has no family in Philly. Now am I leaving. He is alone. He said he wanted to overdose and die. He left this afternoon with a bottle of whiskey and a phone call for ten bags. he said i could have his computer.

Worried. I regret the times I used to think of suicide and debate with friends the issue. I regret my selfishness. I regret heroin. I regret giving up the little adventures for the bigger ones. I regret not taking my time.
At the same time. I understand him. the unspeakable alone feeling. the bedroom cell and the prisoners of sleep and hopelessness. oversensitivity. i understand the want. If he dies...it's my fault. and yet i understand.

lazy afternoon
Listening to latin samba with a nice glass of red wine, admiring the trees. Trees. Can you believe it? Actual nature slouched right outside my fucking porch. Not my porch. My dad's porch.
Back in town for my mom's birthday. Staying for a week at the grandioso expense of de-nada.

toast? you bet. internet? you bet. Happy gilmore? yup.
I think I'm going to own my own ranch one day. Out in the west with tons of lizards. They're the easiest to maintain, you see. None of those chickens for me. No thank you. But salamanders, now there's some quality meat. I could sit on my steps drinking beer and eating oranges until the sun came down. portable radio next to me. My friend for the evening.
Sometimes I think I don't even need anybody. No one. Not a one. I could be out in the desert completely isolated and as long as I had my books, I might be alright. Who knows. Maybe better than alright.
Sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing in the city.
Living off of frosted flakes and ego waffles forever.

The corner stores though. That's where it's at. They've got that salsa music that just keeps beating. Right through to my speakers until I reach home. And it's still there.

I know it's been awhile...
< So I got a job as a secretary. Of course it ends up to be at a crazy house. Technically 'artists for recovery' which means psychiatric medication protestors. hmm not sure what to make of it yet. The people are...eccentric and nice. Everything you'd expect from an art organization. I also get to take free classes. yay. >

I found myself staring at the slightly cracked, antique-tinted mirror of my mother's bathroom today. Gold beads strung across the top of it, reminding me of something out of the sixties. Time magazines thrown quickly into the bare bath tub. Decopauge? Two small compact powder makeup cases. Closed on the wooden shelf above the water knobs.
It's an old house. Complete with gas lamps and pictures from Nigeria. A pillow made out of my mother's old prom dress. It smells just right. Musty bookshelves, stale chocolate, fire place wood. I'm home tonight.

Current Mood: calm

annoyed at myself
"he's stalking you."
I don't think so. But the thought did come across my mind when who of all people was looking through my third floor window from the fire escape. just kidding.

in the news of 8:20 p.m.... I am at home. I.E. opal street and Dave (considering Jess is at painting class.) Everyone I know is sick. Everyone at 5th and washington. Everyone here. Everyone in the world. We're going to have a sea of snot drown us up before global warming even kicks.

In other news... I've decided my life long goal is to be a secretary. Highly ambitious I know, but hey, I think working in an office is cool. I could sit in my cubicle and answer phones and gossip with the water cooler crowd. for the rest of my life.

I'm starting to feel the green in these walls eat me up. More like the cinder blocks outside or maybe the way homeless people see right through you. Or when you try and get off the crowded bus, no one pushes aside until your stuck going nowhere. fast. I'm starting to feel the drip of something slightly more nasty than before and only twice as good. I'm starting to feel gross. Even in the span of walking fifteen blocks, I can feel the grunge biting through my sneakers. I should get new ones. It never happens. I should get minutes for my phone that was only on briefly. It doesn't happen. I should get a job. And the email is still waiting when the answering machine has broke.

Maybe West Chester. It has more trees and the people could be mistaken for southern gents. An hour away from the city and far enough from the smell. Maybe New York City but the buildings are too tall and if they fell on my head, I would crumble into the sewer. Brought back. I'm starting to wonder where home is.

"It's a good thing my birthday is tomorrow and not today."
whoops. I fucked up again.

one minute
patterns
GED
get education done.
go ever downward.
forward. ahead. except on the same plane, just further along. As if the casette will ever flip over, but one can't stop playing now. the radio is already shrieking and I can't stop dancing in the same rhythms that I think lame but can't seem to find the pattern to get out of. Can't. the big word of the decade. erase it. erasing. erasing.

arms thrown away to the ceiling. no! the sky. past the ceiling. breaking through in fists past concrete and wired electronic equipment. feels like layers keep piling, but they are just surfacing. surfacing to air. surfacing to non oxygen space bubbles. past gravity! past buildings! past passing by and speeding into the now. starring. staring. starting. into space arms with fingers growing out like trees. where did they come from? how can they survive?

the circles start to make sense.

Drawing your own conclusions they come to a hault in the paper. Paper shredder, why do you seek my comfort? The other way around is not an option worth thinking about. Things worth thinking about aren't often thought of highly. Too high to catch with arms already in space. Just a little further. And around and around and around and around. Until one line of consciousness is one stream of sidewalk is one step to the run.

I'm turning into something. Something different than I recognized. Claws and jaws alike, why are my nails this color? Falling into my pupils again, where are they going? I'm a dinosaur. Largly unavoidable but run from nonetheless. Purple spots scratched until dents are bandaids and bandaids are feet. Spots like circles. Circles like bubbles. Bubbles like dreams. Dreams like skies. Skies like infinity. Infinity like
Get Education Done.

dontread
Goddamnitrebecca.
sex drugs and drugs. fuck rock and roll. This is the song I am listening to.
It's friday night again. I feel like weeks are just imaginary days that don't really hold any space or time. existance? non.
"Oh. that's really good, I'm sure you're not modeling for high fashion or anything. You have to be like 5'10 and 110 pounds. you know how it is..."--maggie
why am I friends with girls? why?
Why does Jessica make it a point to talk about stephanie's dad paying her rent? My dad pays my rent currently. Does that make me a spoiled bitch? Why is it even any of anyones concern?

blah. applied to several jobs on craigslist. Keeping a positive attitude. hopefully...

I think I'm just going to rent a camper and go on a journey across the U.S. all I need now is a driver. And a camper. And gas money. All reasonably achievable. I want to go to Mississippi, NYC, Arizona, Chicago, and others. No real specific order of direction there.
I will live off of apples and wine. No real order there either.

Necessities:
tape recorder
camera
notebook
walky talkies

Current Mood: awake
Current Music: princess superstar (?)

lollies
Unraveling rug lying down low.

"I beat. I beat. I beat. I beat. I beat that bitch with a hit."
-I hate hippies... they're such posers with their middle class clothing. Who listens to sublime anymore?

Lollie lip smacking with hair jewels to match. Hair color: dyed. Platform sneakers: alive. High elevation for low destination. Pressing for floor 19 and going sideways. Is this the glass elevator or has charlie lost his chocolate?

Hips to one side. De-de-decision making time. I have to be making good time. Making Time. Got to make the metro before minutes run out. Token? Unlucky change. Dress code? Un lucky change. De-de-demanded.
Uptown? Downtown. Low down? Keep it under. shhhhh
lollie lips stuff their secrets way down deep into invisible pockets called purses. Wait. Messenger bags.

"I beat. I beat. I beat...."
Cell phone flipped open.
- it's a bunch of raver kids anyway. Can't talk now... minutes are Making Time.
de-de-denied.
-you lie like a rug.
Un raveled? just dyed

Current Mood: amused

u h huh
Women in the city don't revolve thier life around men because there aren't as many good ones around. They're all concerned with alcohol, fucking, and being tough. Women are concerned with women. Hair. Makeup. Parties. Music. Fashion. Working out. Jobs. Friends. And of course who is doing who. But even that isn't about men.

The past month has been a blur of:
south park episodes. niccolo. 5th and Washington. stnuff. Avoiding phone calls. Not having a phone. Running out of money. Avoiding laundry. Half ass attempts at the english class. A free painting class with Jessica. Marlboros vs. Camels. Sleeping. The Good Will. Riding buses. Rays Jazz Bar. Reading Garison Keillor's book. Pizza. The off brand of ritz crackers. Occasional yoga. Techno. The slow process of unpacking boxes.

fetish modeling???
''vanity modeling'' decided by nick,jess,and I.
this subject never seems to fail my interest. WHAT ARE THEY MODELING FOR????? if anyone knows... please message me. I'm dying of curiosity.
on the bright side... I have been asked to shoot some girls in philly for a sliver of cash. Photography job? Oh I think so.
sadly... I have very limited experience in shooting vanity models. Advice given to me reads as such:
lots of high exposure. (makes anyone look good)

rushing around from the sky we were like stars. flamboiantly celebrity of course.

Don't look back.
justkeepgoing. as if you couldn't type this sentence anymore. as if you couldn't read your mind anymore. just move and keep moving.

as if running wasn't hard enough. the speed of the situation was an ocean I won't touch on. Rings of saturn couldn't be so strung out? not yet.

feeling the rhythm of movement rewinding.
cigarettes and cereal.
green nail polish.
purple nail polish.
stop -nigeria.
raining on 11th and christian train tracks.

My feet were running faster than yours. You just couldn't see them they were so far ahead. out the door and one street down. i'll bring the bebe gun and you get the paint.

sneakers on pavement. basketballs in the universe. space is numbers and numbers are only theories to impossible answers.
ringing on telephones.
answering in messages.

-hey beck, i just wanted to touch base with you.

and thoughts are weightless if you don't put them to use.
so here's the plan:
we dug out some of the grungiest of ideas and slung them into a garbage can. take that oscar of belief.
we're going to the top of that building. up the fire escape andthrough the window. right there we're goingto fall into the jazz.
a cat? of course they'll be strays. Oh you mean me? no no, just licking up good taste.
Entertainment? we've got all the timein the world.

just don't look back.

a productive whine
this is officially my day of complaining.
I woke up this morning on my death bed... at first I didn't think anything was too different until I felt the worst thing in the entire world. To this moment I'm not exactly sure what it is... however I suspect sex has gotten the best of me.

I tried to explain the situation to my partner in crime (we'll call him jesus)... he rolled over. So what was the logical thing to then do? THROW him out of the room and lock the door with all his clothes and telephone inside my room.
A bit confused? I should say so.
The next thing I know, he's banging on the door telling me I'm probably insane.

After much exhaustion I let him in. tackled him to the floor. confessed my woes. (that being the 'moving out blues'. packing. cleaning. throwing things away. discovering things that I wish I had thrown away years ago. etc.) To which we thought cranberry juice would be the best idea.

no such luck.

went to the coffee shop on fitzwater and low and behold... no one in the city drinks the stuff anymore. nasty? yes. I understand. Purposeful? Quite.

I then proceeded to tell Jesus that it was his fault. If he hadn't had such rough sex with me, I wouldn't be in pain.
He didn't agree.
We decided the next possibility was a chinese herb shop. yes... they HAD to know what they were doing.

So in the spirit of no nicotine and cranberry juice, we trudged over to fifteenth street. The internet said the chinese herb shop was on fifteenth street. Why would it lie?
Jesus Christ.
We couldn't figure it out.

No herb shop. No cigarettes. No cranberry juice. No hope.
Jesus left for home (rightfully so) and so this brings me here. Annoyed, irritated, in pain, and still not much closer to moving out.

However..... I did pack my dishes (those that had survived).

Current Mood: aggravated

smog
life is a puzzle. one complicated pattern of organizations with one. common. theme. Squares.
four sides to every division.
left. right. up. down.
north. east. south. west.

the chess board was set up side down. when did that black pipe start looking like a rook?
and then the canister of disappointments leaning to the empty side of the ''savings'' envelope. red. painted with chinese characters marching vertical.

Dust spatters clogging up ones head. "I'm not smoking any more." And her head is cured! the errupting cancer will not spread through venting systems of pollution ANY more!

musty perfume is more than a little old. With the cursed letters of M&Q scripted across the front. yellow. more like gold from a garden frollicking somewhere with the watch chain.
honey... i'm going south to try and get a cheap botle of white wine, meet me around sixish.

And the booth was closed for betting. cash crumpled into checkered lifestyles, wallets weren't necessary. nor did they bother.
deep into the hunger of what was called ink. for a type writer ribbon and a chance to meet romance itself.

Are you having an affair with the sun light in my warehouse windows?
They boast with yellow and orange skipping hand and hand across the wood of lines. of shadows. of glimpses. of direction.

and the gangly gold of a pocket-watch; sulks hungry against the thread of 8:43.

"Smoking's not in my canister of red envelopes." She flicks her annoyance around me like a puzzle.

The End Of The World
1:18 PM

and time was ticking on. from the shower to the ego waffle. Time was moving. They knew that the world was coming to an end in two hours, but they didn't know how. Refusing to accept fate, they must find a way to stop it.

From Philadelphia to Mississippi they crawled faster than planes. "Do you know how the world is going to end?"
People looked at them and shook their head. No one knew.
Work was useless... why were people there? Didn't they know the world was going to end and their last days would be filing papers at a desk?

So they kept moving. Down boxcars until they reached Louisiana. New Orleans.
"I want to go to mardi gras. They always know what's going on." Someone with an idea said.

But when they reached New Orleans, there was nothing there.
"Has it already happened?"
But they were alive.

In a constant search for a survivor they kept wondering on. Through villages of mass destruction and trenches of jazz bars that used to be. They came to a building. Red brick all the way to the top.

The sky was getting gray. "Maybe this is how it's going to end." Someone pointed at the possibility in the sky.

With heads hung high the realization was made. No one knew. And what was worse, was there was an hour left of nothing but waiting.

"I'm going back to work. There's no point in wondering." One of the crew was giving up.
"I'm going back to Philly." Another lost hope was present.

Eventually there was just one person left. Looking up at the New Orleans sky and hoping that something wouldn't happen.
"I'm staying."

Current Mood: calm

cosmo and nail polish
2:40 P.M.

and todays laundry is somewhat clean. I always forget to put the clothes in the dryer until they are already half dry and smelly. How is this the case?

Today
Salvation army on market street. Cash to burn and clothes to get
class? probably.
Cleaning... done
kitty litter....finally done
groceries? debatable
reading cosmo in a coffee shop? most likely.

I woke up to jazz softly playing in the other room. Walked out, and I was in. with the half alive plants and the scattered books. Sex and a strobe light shower later and the song ''extacy'' comes on.
Why aren't there any cool goth people around anymore? could it be? they were never really cool to begin with? no. I refuse to accept that.

laundry=folded. sheepishly into a blue, plastic, basket in the corner of my studio.
Dollar bills=crumpled. Into the crease of the 'mom jeans' pocket. i need new clothes.

Current Mood: awake

keep-it-together Rebecca
I'm trying. I'm trying.

God damn it Rebecca. What the fuck. Life is hard, so what? practice what you preach.

So I sat there- wrapped around my blanket of fruit flies and dirty laundry. It was around noon time but it was raining so it felt earlier.
There were a couple dreams.

First
a basement with a friend of mine. We had killed someone by poisoning salad at a local bar. We poisoned the wrong bar and had to hide out so the cops wouldn't find us. Dirty white cotton and a chain wallet. We were hard core criminals.

I woke up remembering a telephone number that I jotted down.
Does anyone know whose this belongs to?
456 7135

Second
I was outside of a school in the five o clock sun. A football game was going on between Albemarle High School and Western High School. I could hear people cheering from a field below.
Everyone had left the school building except a couple teachers and some kids staying after. I was eating.... hot dogs. And fruit. Against the brick when two big labs (one yellow, one chocolate) came up and started chasing each other.
I looked around, but there was no way home and I realized that I didn't even want to go anywhere. It was summer and I could hear the grass hoppers and the crickets so clearly it was as if I still heard them when I woke up.
Kids too. I heard yelling and roller blading and some sort of four square game going on near by. The last thing I remember before waking up was the smell of chlorene.

The fucking beach boys were playing. Who wakes up to the beach boys? I wasn't planning on it, but you know how things have a way of working out. The ash tray was knocked over. Empty vodka bottle next to some weed wrappers. Head ache. Stomach ache. Beach boys.

Keep it together Rebecca. The thought of charlottesville is making me sick and longing at the same time. How is that possible?

Maybe the beach boys were right.

" You know the more it seems we talk about it
it only makes it worse to live with out it. "

Current Mood: cynical

Advertisement