i want to be that girl again who didn't need the sound of the television to get to sleep. that girl who had only these in her bedroom: a bed, a dresser, a cd player, a nightstand holding one lamp and ten books being read simultaneously. i want to be that girl again who wrote like a fucking fiend, in notebooks and on post-it notes and napkins and margins of class notes and constantly in her head. that girl who always had an interesting hairstyle, who wore silver lipstick and black nailpolish. that girl who ate alive the experience of living alone, in her own apartment, who really cared very little what other people wanted her to do with her life. i want to be that girl again.

and just because i'm a little tipsy and have surfed too far and want to bring a little levity to the situation...

The Emo Band Name Generator.

found it on a message board thread (really, don't ask me how i got there) on which someone suggested someone else name their band either 'art fag' or 'french canadian.' genius!

anyway, according to this generator, my band already has a name: Compound Redhead. whee!

i got sucked into the tv shows again tonight. after weeks of telling myself that i wouldn't.

i'm watching the show that i think was aired months ago, the documentary by the french guy who happened to be filming some firemen when the whole thing went down. it's good. i don't think i could have watched it months ago, but it's ok now.

and anyway, i'm sitting here thinking...how happy am i to be sitting here? drinking chianti and smoking. cooking a big pot of mashed potatoes. this has all been a big reminder of my over-concentration on my petty problems.

it's also making me think that i am in the right line of work. it's not like i'm saving anyone's life, but, i still feel, as i felt a year ago when i started this job, that i'm doing something good for humanity. maybe it is ultimately selfish because i am getting paid for it, but, i feel like i'm doing the right thing. don't get me wrong, i was, am, and always will be a writer. but i can do that without doing it for a living (obviously...i'm doing it right now in a sense). maybe someday i will do it for a living again. but for right now, making the world a slightly better place, if only for a few minutes a day if at that, makes me feel like a good person.

or perhaps i've just drank too much cheap chianti. sigh.

when my gramma passed away in 1991, my college housemates gave me a card in which one of them had written a poem. she said that someone had written the same poem in a card for her when her grandmother had died and thought it might, i don't know, something like bring me some solace.

it was a beautiful poem (granted, a little Hallmark-y, but really quite nice) and i've had it memorized all these years. just to make sure i had it right, i just looked it up and found this about it:

When a friend of hers lost someone close, Mary Frye jotted down a poem, which seemed to spring from her heart, and gave it to the grieving woman. That poem was later passed on to others, who, in turn, passed it on, until it became an American classic.

"If it helps one person through a hard time, I am amply paid," said the poet, who has received no remuneration for her uncopyrighted work.

true or not, who knows, but it's a nice idea.

i am sitting here watching some tv show about the world trade center, september 11th, nine-eleven, whatever you want to call it. i've been telling myself that i'm not going to watch any tv shows about it this week because what good is that going to do? all it will do is make me feel sad and hopeless. but here i am. i didn't mean to watch it; it snuck up on me.

anyway i've been thinking, what am i going to post about the anniversary on here? and this poem came to mind. so here it is:

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

[Mary E. Frye]