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...i'm building a garden, to sing me to sleep... - (she's having a terrible time ending anything)
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10:16 am
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(she's having a terrible time ending anything)
Today there are not enough clouds; at this moment, there are none. And yet, it was such a wet treat yesterday. I thought not to water my plants until one sulked and we carried on a boring conversation about the necessity of water, in which case I became thirsty, had a glass, and shared further insight with the plant about miracle grow. I lost a lot of plants this year, some never meant to last beyond a year while others are quietly being attacked by aphids. I talked with the pencil cactus about insecticide and I don't think the plant cares one bit like an old man ready for a damn pill. But. This vegan walked up and told us about organic gardening and I felt harshly bitter about the entire situation. He picked off a piece of the cactus and put it in his mouth, chewing silently with small faces of prickly pieces hitting the back of his throat as he swallowed. He was impressed by the flavor and we discussed veganism with the cactus. I thought to pull one of the vegan's hairs and use it as floss but he seemed conservative. My plants enjoy clouds and rainwater. One plant, my most favorite so I call him Louis sometimes, was flooded from his rocky terrain by the vomiting gutter. Louis laughed quite a bit and rolled in the water like a very thin man splattered with butter. I put him back in the pot upon witness, relieved in a way but also disgusted. Louis should have died. Now he is one of my most impressive beasts. What a strange cave plants create for themselves. I once asked a man, Lance Craig or Ashley, what his favorite plant in the world was. He was a sexist and very handsome, ready to demolish the major of Forestry for the study of horticulture, the true culmination of latin as you discover an endless reign of plantlife. He loved white pines. I was disappointed and decided conversing with a white pine would be the best way to solve the issue. Instead, I found a riverbirch and peeled off a sheet of bark for my use of note writing in the woods. The riverbirch was displeased by my tasteless use of his skin. I laughed and walked over to my old friend, the trifoliate orange, and he poked me with one of his large thorns. He told me the hercules-club would numb the pain and we laughed. Yes, I was always more impressed with protection. Though. Let us not forget the Aspen and thus, I understand the love of a single tree. What is elongated, colorful, and symmetrical will always have superior love. Is that why humans love models? They are very odd looking but a very good representation of skeletons. But. That is besides the point.
I am not only applying to Evergreen College anymore. Washington, oh sweet wondrous western state near Canada, that Puget Sound beneath the mountains, and the air, how it changes on the ferry. Yes, that bookstore in Seattle, that mountain north of Bellevue and the falls, Snoqualmie Falls. What treasures. But. By chance the other eve of Tuesday, I was given a packet of information by the mailman-he goes by Charlie but I know his name is Carlos! What foolishness. Charlie told me that I ought to try to go to that school instead. The snobby aura of dream schools seeped into my veins and I felt a small vibration as my cells danced in harmony. Vassar. I sent off for an information packet so long ago, I'm unsure of the actual moment I made the decision. When I did make the decision, I believed that I would never be able to afford the school. In reality, that is most likely. Why pay so much for a school when you can make the most of a great school at a better price? Yes, we can talk endlessly, I say to Louis, but I just have to know. Know what? he speculated. I need to know if I could would be accepted, if I would be offered a nice sum of aid. I applied to St. John's College, Austin College, and SFASU my senior year of high school. They are in order of dreams at the time. I was not accepted to St. John's because I did not have a chance to do an interview---who do I blame, Louis? Of course, the very devil herself and anyone else involved with drill teams! That foolish principal and mother. Everyone--LISTEN! Don't believe the status quo! In high school, only academics matter. No one cares about drill team or band!! Are these lies? Louis believes so but he's a prickly plant that flowers oddly. You can't trust an odd flower. I was accepted into Austin College with half the tuition paid. All in all, I would have paid the same that I paid to go to a college of forestry in buck-town-ho-hum-i-want-to-kill-myself-and-not-squirrels-east-texas. Louis loves doing that. I would give him credit for that alternate name of Nacogdoches, but Charlie actually came up with it during his speech/lecture on the credibility of locations of schools in respect to the ability to succeed. But about Vassar. Yes. The absolute dream school. I think the best dream would be me at Vassar my first year and absolutely hating it. That would just be self-doubt because I would actually have to write papers.
Don't even get me started on the whole papers bit. I had to invite Charlie in last night to witness my room so that he would understand the effects of his words on me. I can't stop throwing things away and I can't stop hating every single thing in there. Except Desiderio. and Tolstoy. Hughes. Plath...but some of those Plath books seem outright disrespectful. I wonder if Plath had a dirty room. She seemed odd enough to be a compulsive cleaner. Sometimes if I look at pictures from the fifties, I believe that poor people had better clothes than most of my nice clothes. I think I have an internal click that turns on when I see certain fashions performed. I am never inside what turns it on. I am never comfortable. So my room is upside down. I'm ready to pack but for what? Mother is a mess. She ignores Louis more than ever and sissy seems sick today. What if she is? Every time I tell her I love her, I wonder what it would be like if it were the last time. That's what love is like---never, ever enough. But about Mother. Yes, she is stunted. Stunted by her own amazing performance and the absolution of denial.
No NYC. No. Ugly word. Easy for anyone to understand, a language-proof bullet of a word. It's not enough to know that you tried, to know that you did everything you could do. But that's not like love. Don't confuse what is enough or not enough with the reasons. I keep having odd nightmares about Mother. I have for years now. Even if I am sublime and pleased...no matter. Dreams of stiffness, of breathlessness, of causing injury. Sissy believes these dreams to be my most honest depiction of our relationship but Sissy is childish at times. Small dogs usually are. I wish I would dream of Sarah some time. Where's my honesty for her? Complete apathy? And Sissy. I'm sure my dreams of Sissy are ahead and they will be so painfully and awfully joyous. That is, if I'll let myself play with a dog in my dreams.
Current Music: (the moment before a headache and how it roars so quietly)
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