It's gonna be awesome.

Oh my god. I just found out that Amanda Palmer is going to be four hours away, in North Carolina, next month. And Cat just recently said that we can't drive to Charleston, which is an hour and a half away, because she doesn't trust her car Lucy to make it.

I am so upset! AMANDA PALMER! And I can't go. I wish we knew someone else going or something, so we could ride with them. But I don't even know anyone else who likes her, except for people who don't drive.

Only a few SC people are on here, but do any of you know anyone who is going? 

Libba Bray love. I respect her more than any other writer (her and David Levithan, who she hangs out with, by the way! Oh my god, perfection.

From her most recent post:

I think this will be one of those odd, not-quite-right-in-my-skin posts today. Last night, the family and I went to see “Where the Wild Things Are.” It was a weep-fest among the three of us. Some folks on Twitter asked if the movie was too scary for a five-year-old/seven-year-old/fill in with age here. I loved Maurice Sendak’s response. Apparently, he said that if the adults were too scared, they could go and let the kids stay. LOL. But it’s true. I think kids are much less afraid of the darker, sadder aspects of life than we give them credit for. It’s the adults who can’t quite bear that sadness. It’s as if we, too, fall victim to magical thinking; we think we can protect kids from life’s inherent injustices and cruelties, from the knowledge that things fall apart, that our anger is powerful, and that, ultimately, underneath it all, we are alone in a big world in a vast universe. And we try to bridge that loneliness with our connection to other people, people who disappoint us as much as they love and complete us. Life is hard. Growing up is hard and it never stops. Thank heavens for art.

Anyway, it’s been a long time since I saw something that felt as if it pierced through every piece of my armor and jostled my atoms inside. I’m still waiting for those atoms to settle. I always loved that book. I think I identified with Max. And I loved that he could be so angry and not have to be penitent in the end. He could just sail away and return when he felt ready to rejoin civilization.

There’s a moment in the beginning of the film that involves a snow fort. I won’t spoil it for you except to say that it doesn’t end well and Max’s response is so nakedly honest and true that I was completely disarmed. I felt what he was feeling. That happened a lot. There are many silences in the film. (Someone said that the book has only ten sentences? Must hunt down my copy to verify this.) At times, Karen O’s soundtrack (which helped make it for me) is filled with the kind of humming children do when they are playing unselfconsciously. It has howling and screeching. It’s primal.  It’s terrific. Yeah, it’s getting a workout on my iPod today.  

I think that’s what I really respected about this movie: Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers  and Karen O trust us to have whatever feelings we’re going to have. They don’t explain. They don’t try to take the hurt away. They don’t reassure. They don’t patronize or spoon-feed or lie. They let us be. And when we are ready, they let us return, changed. I guess that’s what ideal parents do, too.

It really made me think about art and writing, about how we approach what we do, about that trust between the writer and reader. I am hoping I can take some of these lessons to heart in future writing and allow the work to be. It’s certainly left me with lots of thoughts/feelings/questions to sift through. Thanks, Spike, for letting me get in touch with my inner wild thing for a bit. We’re never too old for rumpusing.

I am very excited to be seeing this tonight.

What did you guys think of it? 

<3

As part of my speech for Public Speaking class, I had to choose a manuscript to read from. It was allowed to be anything, and I wanted to choose something that is really important, so I decided to read from a book by Eve Ensler. It was hard to choose which book, but I finally decided on The Good Body.

This is what I read:

I am stepping off the capitalist treadmill. I am going to take a deep breath and find a way to survive not being flat or perfect. I am inviting you to join me, to stop trying to be anything, anyone other than who you are. I was moved by women in Africa who lived close to the earth and didn’t understand what it meant to not love their body. I was lifted by older women in India who celebrated their roundness. I was inspired by Marion Woodman, a great Jungian analyst, who gave me confidence to trust what I know. She has said that “instead of transcending ourselves, we must move into ourselves.” Tell the image makers and magazine sellers and the plastic surgeons that you are not afraid. That what you fear the most is the death of imagination and originality and metaphor and passion. Then be bold and LOVE YOUR BODY. STOP FIXING IT. It was never broken.


Cat said I would look so weird reading that in front of the class, because I'm so thin. She was probably right. I bet it did seem strange. But Eve Ensler, in my opinion, is one of the most important women out there. She's just so freaking amazing. Anyway, I'm hoping that these words meant something to at least one person who listened to me read them.

I'm becoming more interested in feminism, LGBT rights, and general equality and 'loving yourself' kind of stuff every day. I want to be more active in all of those things, to become more comfortable with myself and fight for myself, as well as fight for others and help them. What I really want is to be the next Eve Ensler.

The main point of this post was to share what I read outloud, though, and I hope you guys like it / realize how true it is and decide to run with it!

<3

I am so proud to be a huge fan of someone so fantastic.

Libba Bray (author of the Gemma Doyle series [which everyone should read]) wrote something beautiful about Proposition 8 in her journal. It can be read here: libba-bray.livejournal.com/48582.html

I've been feeling so sad about the whole thing today. It's really getting to me. I am ashamed of my country. I've never loved it. I have never, ever been proud to be an American. But it's just so much harder than it was before, now. I can't feel okay, not when horrible people like rapists and murderers are given basic rights and we're not. I am basically being told, and people like me are being told, that we are less than those people who don't even deserve to be alive. And it's all because of a book that I feel shouldn't even be held so high like it is. People should not have their rights taken away, should not fight for them and be sometimes KILLED, because of a fucking book. I don't have a problem with people being religious - until it hurts someone. But it usually does, whether it's someone like me or a poor girl just wanting an abortion because she doesn't feel ready or able to take care of a child. Please don't get me wrong, though... I know there are plenty of religious people who are really great and accepting. It's not those people that I'm upset with.

I'm proud to be a lesbian, and I won't ever feel ashamed now that I've grown into this and myself. But I am still feeling really bad about everything surrounding who I am. No, I don't wish to be different. I just wish things were easier. I hate that we have this battle ahead of us, and this wondering if we will ever win it, just because of who we are. So many of us are compassionate, loving, kind people.

Nightingale

    Did I wound you, mutilate. Take away your voice. Did I cut something from you. Leave you locked in silence?

    This is what you do: you sing. Every part of you. Your locks of hair sing sing, your eyes, your hands, your smile. If I listen closely I can even hear your blood.

    Was I the one that took that away?

    Go down to the water where we used to swim. Stand under the sky at dawn when the sky is streaked with blood. Open your mouth and shout our secret to the waves. The ocean will be your voice. You won't have to carry anything alone. Little Sister, my Spring. April. Little Nightingale. Stand at the edge of the water. Your voice will come back to you. Maybe. If I am silent.

The Rain Is Coming

    Little Sister, the night broke. The thunder cracked my brain finally. The rain is coming, I promise you. I didn't mean to but your tears will bring life back. Purple flowers grow, the color blood looks in veins. They'll sprout out of my chest. I promise you they'll crack the ground, grow over the freeways, down the slopes to the sea. I'll be in their faces. I'll be in the waves, coming down on you from the sky. I'll be inside the one who holds you.

    And then I won't be.


             an excerpt from Wasteland, by Francesca Lia Block

[There were big windows overlooking the garden. I opened them and smelled the jasmine and the wet earth. There was a little warm breeze and the garden tinkled and chimed like stars falling. I called you. I wanted a refill on my wine. I wanted to give you the jasmine and the wind chime stars.
    I'm sorry.]

Life Savers, Lemondrops

You make the world so much sweeter
Sweet, sweet with your expansive eyes
and sweet with your smile, your smile
Your lips are pouting and ruby and
waiting for mine and
y o u  t a s t e  s u g a r c o a t e d

You make the world so much sweeter,
but mother always told me that
I eat too much sugar
I refuse to eat anything but sweets --
Chocolates and candies with fruit flavor
I want to eat until I am full
but the candy always runs out
before bedtime

You make the world so much sweeter
but I am no longer skeletal and
my skin is inflamed and unsightly
My teeth are rotting away
with cavities
and the pain is excruciating
And looking back on it all,
I should have listened to mother