INTP

That's my personality, reduced to four little letters.


From what I can tell, it's pretty apt.


I think I want to replace my facebook statuses with crypticism, which the red squiggles tell me isn't a word, but I think it makes my point better than any other. The "T" stands for thinking.  The other option is "F", for feeling.


deep as a puddle, shallow as ocean
sharp as a feather, tender as ice
nobody can put these parts into motion
who else can shatter this darkness with light?


Riddles, nursery rhymes, parts of A Swiftly Tilting Planet. 

obsession confession

Sometimes I get really sad and need something someone to help me out, I am happy now but I know it is just part of that sine curve and that the sad will come back down, I just need to figure out the frequency and period so I can prepare, graph my instantaneous mood.  m sub i.


I'm not sure what I think about, but I think that if I try really hard I can be really good at everything, except maybe getting enough sleep when I have to wake up early the next day because sometimes things like that cause me to think more and I can't think the way I want to when I sleep.


I wonder about having "crazy" parents, what that does/did/willdo to me but I don't really mind it I guess, I'm just watching out for myself in this soupy world, subatomic particles here, there, and nowhere all at once just like my thoughts.  I'll allow myself run-on sentences and to not maybe write poetry in its true sense but in my mind floating through between wind tunnel ears stamping around leaving again not really prose how it feels.  I'm trying to write a play but what if none of it is good enough, why do I feel this way?  Maybe it's true, but I shouldn't really care.


All I want for christmas is straight As. 


I was looking through oldish papers cleaning out my desk before I moved out of my room in my house at school, not the house at school I'm in now, the real one, and I found a poem I wrote but my computer science teacher had said all the words, it was poetry reading in between the lines.  Because everyone speaks poetry if you take out some words, I'm no poet when I try hard, hardly trying I'm not much either, but everyone's got to make that dent in the world somehow.


Stream of consciousness is bullshit, that makes it sound like the way we think is some sort of line, stream, only one row with one thing after another.  I think it's more like an ocean, with everything, animals inside, waves crashing on the beaches, tides pulling in and out but that mass of water goes on far beyond what the eye can see and is colder and darker than you can imagine, that's where the strange fish live.


Sans serif is never as beautiful, even if it makes smaller text more clear.

flowers bloom until they rot and fall apart

It's bizarre being back at school with only around thirty other people.  I don't really know what to do.  I listen to Hadestown over and over again, and wish that Orpheus had never looked back.  I read Jitterbug Perfume.  I go through the motions of being.  Is this what it's like to grow up and not have homework?  

I've started to write a play.  Maybe I'll just make myself write one play per weekend.  I'll walk out to the graveyard.  I'll look at the stars.  Yes.  Homework.

We live together in a house, fourteen of us.  We eat dinner together and laugh.  I don't know why, but thinking about it makes me feel empty all of a sudden.  I miss something I've never had and can't really grasp, something vital and invisible, like space.  Something, someone?

brevity cavity

I like those words together.  They almost rhyme, even though I don't usually concern myself with rhyming most of the time.  I have been home for a long time now, but I have to go back to school soon--not school school though, working at the local library/admissions.  I'm excited, but also a little bit sad.  It would be bittersweet, but bittersweet seems too strong of a descriptor.  Who knows, who cares.  Here is where brevity comes in. 

wanted: pen pal

I've had this thing lately about wanting a pen pal, someone to write to on paper instead of writing to myself all the time.  I guess that this blog is like having a pen pal to some extent, except for the fact that I often find that the way I write or speak varies somewhat based on who I am speaking to.  I would really like to see if I can speak to someone else as honestly as I do when I speak to myself.  It would also be interesting to see what other people say.  And with paper, you can doodle in the margins.  There's something about paper.

so I'll brush my teeth and think of you, looking at photographic ghosts of your past, our past, but we didn't know each other yet. 


that one day in a green room filled with sunlight, I, unintentionally, became a tool of your procrastination and we talked about books we've read and our childhood and books in our childhood and how they are really one and the same.


I used to draw horses obsessively, now I obsessively draw faces everywhere, because they are all around, always following, always watching I don't know what but it doesn't really matter because it's not usually me I don't think. we talked about the horses but not the faces and that's just fine.

the seventy-six bones of the axial skeleton

I can name them.  Well, most of them.  Remembering all of the facial bones is hard.  Maxilla, mandible, two nasal, (two?) vomer...that's all I've got.  Ethnoid? That's one, right?

Let's pretend that I have been writing consistently, as per usual.  Let's also pretend that I don't have oh, say, around one hundred really dense pages to read for one class tomorrow, and that I don't have any other work for my other classes tomorrow.  

Let's pretend that college is easier than I thought it would be.

Now that that's settled. [acknowledgement of intentional sentence fragment/delusions] 

I was briefly thinking about doing the thing where you write a whole novel during the month of November, but then, I stopped thinking about it.  Then I thought about how November isn't over yet.  Then I thought about how it would actually be kind of insane to start now, considering I don't have any ideas for a novel.  Then I thought about how if I ate another bite of raw spinach and chickpeas, I would throw up.  I did it.  I didn't throw up though.

Usually this is the point where I ask myself some sort of abstract question that I've been thinking about.  There are too many right now to even begin.

I miss doing this, writing.  I need this to be okay, and I haven't been keeping myself okay.  I am cheery on the telephone. "Everything's great, classes are great, I'm totally on top of everything," I believe it when I say it.  It's mostly true, except for the end bit.  I'm sort of on top of some things.  

I I I

I'm sure this is fascinating.  

It would be funny if someone read this and fell in love with me.  Sometimes I read things and fall in love with people for a few minutes.  It happened a couple of months ago, but I got over it after a day or two.  It probably wasn't love; it was just that aching in your chest when you want someone to be something, better maybe, or know that there are other people in the world who feel the same way as they do.  That's kind of how I interpret love.  I've never been in love with anyone, but I think that that's how it would feel for me.  I think I would need to read something they wrote that they didn't want to share with anyone in order to fall in love with a person.

I don't really know where to go from there, except to say that I will write more. But not for you, for me.  It's kind of a selfish thing right now.