A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || January 13, 2002 || 2:39 am

Sometimes I think I might chop micro bangs in my hair and dye them blue, braid the rest up into a hundred teeny braids, dab a bit of clove and ylang-ylang behind each knee and buy a pair of already-worn-in motorcycle boots. Of course, all this would culminate in me hitting the open road.

“Don’t you know

I watched you walkin’ home from school

Your friends on the old playgrounds

You never looked so down

Won’t you come and help me with these cuts of mine?

I’ve disconnected my heart

And cut myself on the wires

// The Wallflowers, “Josephine”

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing a fucking thing for days and sometimes I can’t get any peace for the words chasing me around and begging to be strung together. I don’t know which is worse.

My mom says I was an excellent communicator from the time I was born. She says (and I think not untruthfully) that I held my head up on my own a scant few hours after birth.

Did that one act, that one little defiance of the common run of nature, make me a Watcher or a Doer?

My computer just went belly up, eating most of this entry. Am I not supposed to be ruminating on these things?

My baby book described me as “knowing my own mind” and “short tempered!” Was that who I am? Was that early manifestation of personality traits an accurate legend for who I have grown to be?

“At age two, can recite about nine nursery rhymes”
“Loves to be read to.”
“Can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“At two-and-a-half, can tell you her name, address, phone number and birthdate.”
“Loves music.”
“Can play by herself contentedly for hours.”

I spoke in sentences at a little over a year of age. I read fairly independently when I was three. At four-almost-five I wrote and illustrated my first book. It was about pirate ships and fancy stones with attached meanings. I had a teacher in the first grade that was mean to me because her daughter (two grades ahead of me in the same school) was in remedial reading classes, but the same woman would enlist my help in passing out graded papers and the crayon boxes with everyone’s name on them. My ability to innately do something is bad? Why is it bad?

But thankfully, there is childish forgetfulness and didn’t lose my lust for the magic of letters placed together precisely in order to convey an idea. To communicate.

There are those that say I am wasting a gift, and to a degree, they are right. The thought of creating a full, complete something is daunting in that I simply don’t know where to begin. Which of all the things seeking the solidity of the page are worthy (or worse, TOO worthy) of bringing forth? Do I just spill and pick up a thread in the middle to run with?

I’ve had enough for the day. I’m going to bed.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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