and no one can stop me

i hesitate as i get off the subway at my old stop. it's been months, i think, years perhaps, and just last week i met a friend, but the pavement seems wrong now. me walking down the street is like a neck, broken and laying at a funny angle, it seems ok but then feels a bit creepy. and dead.

part of me hates being here. resents that i have no right to enter the buildings (my ID only works in non-exclusive buildings, ones you don't have to swipe into, so i still see my adviser and play piano in the steinhardt building, i'm beating the system somehow, suckers!), resents that the people i pass walking down the street get to go to class or not go to class and have readings and are able to complain about assignments and dread going to the library, resents that all my work and effort and jumping through hoops and pulling my hair out and being miserable will only put me back on their level and get me to graduate and i will have worked so hard to just keep up and then what? i want it and they have it and they don't even know.

but there is mettle in my bones and iron in my blood and even my bruises are cleaner than their milky skin, and "i cannot be stopped from looking with pity upon all the world's sorry inhavitants, they unblessed by my charms, unchallenged by my trials, unscarred and thus weak, gelatinous" (dave eggers said it first, and he was right, and people bought his book and allowed him the arrogance, so there).

i am dangerous! i am daring and immortal! i am wearing lipstick in a non-ironic way and this is owed me and someday everything will belong to me.

beat

i dreamed last night that i swam the vltava, woke up with my arms aching for the strain, lungs gasping for breath, head cold from swimming across the freezing river.
so today i had to go running, my black tights barely protecting my legs from the freeze, the hood of my orange jacket pulled tight around my head, and i listened to bjork, like i used to when i ran in prague. homogenic, today, on a whim, success.
hunter. unravel. it was appropriate; the weekend was...strange. unexpected.
the devil collects it with a grin our love in a ball of yarn he'll never return it.
ambient sounds focused the noises in my mind, collected the various strands and pulled them together. my body was concentrated, my shadow long as i ran in the grass on the edge of the park, the floodlights not quite reaching, the other runners were amazed at my speed and afraid of my power, i was strong and i passed them all and was flying almost and then
bachelorette
she yells, the song screams; it is a release, and i felt it. my legs moved faster, my hood fell back from my head and i didn't care, just kept running, the wind screaming in my ears, everything quiet except music, organized noise, bjork's terribly sad and self-aware sounds, she is amazing. the cars who saw me in the rare spots of light along the dark street in the dark night in the dark world all they saw was an animal, a gazelle perhaps, or sprite, flitting across the road, daring them to hit me, my force against theirs hardly a contest, i could vanquish all tonight.

sandy neck

i'm going to cape cod today. it's beautiful in the winter.

the porch overlooks the harbor, so cold the saltwater has frozen the marsh, the sun reflecting and almost blinding you. so cold your breath freezes on your face, even inside before the wood stove has had time to head the little cabin. snow crunches underfoot and gives way to sand and then the ocean, cold and tumultuous in january.

cubic meters

i spend a lot of my day trying not to take up too much space.
my bed is small, i wake up and am sleeping against the wall with the other end of the bed just inches away, and then the subway with its infernal mass of hipster glasses and hairdo clad army, taking the L train into the city, they blast their folk rock and look sullenly at the floor and the train is too crowded so i'm pressed up against the door trying to read my book as unobtrusively as possible. at work i have a small amount of floor space i'm allowed to be in, and sometimes not even that--in the morning tables are moved and the floor is swept and i'm somehow constantly in the way,the one tile i try to stand on gives way and keeps shrinking and there are patrons trying to get into the coat check and waiters going by and runners with their plates of food so i shrink smaller. and then i leave and get back on the subway and battle again, the platform crowded, not wanting to be noticed, erasing into anonymous oblivion. i go home and there are people in my apartment, watching television, cooking, taking a shower, playing music, talking on the phone, and so i battle for space for a few hours and then retreat to my bed and watch a movie, my computer weighing down on my lap, and i fall asleep sometimes without even noticing myself.
i saw an exhibit once. it was in the czech republic. there were 5 white boxes on the floor, about knee-height, a little bit more rectangular than a simple cube. they were different sized, but not by much. they represented the artist and his family, their volume determined and then condensed and put into block form. little boxes representing a person, sitting, taking up as little space as possible on the floor.

terribly

films too sad not to see:
Pan's Labyrinth dear maid, kind sister, sweet ofelia, she inhabits a world that parallels the one of flesh; a painful world, both.
Dancer in the Dark she makes a choice, she fought, she sang, she died.
Sophie Scholl the beautiful portrayal of one of my heroes.
Battle of Algiers from the other side, we see terrorism.
The Lives of the Others the complications of a world where choice is not free and life is not owned.
Indochine it is unfair.
The Pianist "i'll play the piano again. on polish radio."
Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon why did he have to die? why did she?
Dead Man Walking the scary thing is, i don't know who to feel more sorrow for.
Life is Beautiful, Schindler's List the holocaust movies.

dobry den

i miss my friend.
he used to sit in the library and talk about books with me. i was reading ayn rand. it, like so much of my life in prague, blew my mind, and he let me talk about it. asked questions, was interested, helped me throw ideas around. he loved Fight Club, tried to convince me to read it, recommended other books. he gave me one he liked as i left, On Beauty, it was interesting and provocative and a lovely gift. he thinks i overuse the word 'lovely'.
i would meet him, needing to talk. i was trying to figure out my course of study, looking for what i wanted to do, trying to define what holds my interest, learning who i was. he listened. he asked questions, he let me work through my ideas, he helped me.
we knew next to nothing about each others' lives. we talked politics, literature, art, music, intelligence, but nothing personal. it was nice not to talk about my emotions or my problems, just things of interest and beauty.
we went to his family's village with matt and tom. we hiked to the top of a mountain and missed the top, and hiked down in the dark. we had to use our cell phones and our senses to find our way down. he was worried, didn't want us to hurt ourselves. i loved his dog. his mother and family were wonderful. they were sweet and generous. mathais played futbol and reminded me of my brother. his mom taught me how to make halusky. his grandmother anastasia made us schitzel and potatoes and brat and cakes. she didn't speak english, corrected our czech/slovak, tried to make us eat and drink more. she gave me the recipe for medovnik. i went to church with them in the little white building on the hill.
he would cook for me on sundays. halusky, potato pancakes, some strange combination of something with rice and pasta. he tried to get me to teach him how to make simple american staple food, and i wasn't sure what that was. (pasta? italian. rice? chinese. mashed potatoes seemed to appease him, but we never made them.)
he rolled his own cigarettes. he had a little pouch he carried around, just tobacco and paper. he would roll up cardboard for the end of it. he didn't use filters. he had an old-fashioned lighter with a joker on it.
we would to out for drinks. i don't drink--he introduced me to kofola--but i'd love going out with him. we talked about everything.
i got an email from him this morning. it was a good day.

what have i done?!

additionally:
my vehement dislike of Twilight is not unknown to friends and family. i have preached and complained and objected to the book(s) for two and a half years now, ever since all the (16+ year old) kids on my trip to peru were stuck sitting around reading and obsessing. ever since i hear people comparing the series to Harry Potter (which is, in fact, the greatest YA series ever written, some of the best books ever written, actually). ever since grown people have "appreciated" the story and the bits about love. ever since everyone is obsessed with the books and the movies and the movie stars. ever since i was told about how bella was a silly girl fitting all the stereotypes about needy women and edward was over 100 years old and still loves this silly little girl and everyone thinks they're in a good relationship. ever since they just bug the living hell out of me.
this hatred has driven me to a new low. i will now attempt the incredible: i will read Twilight.
i need more ammunition. i will return with vengeance.