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| blood orange review is a great name for an online poetry journal. here is something i read in a bio for the poet ronda broatch. (i like it): “When the world sounds its loud demands and the journal gets buried under heaps of bills and papers, something eventually snaps. There arises a physical ache, a backlog of untold stories jamming vital organs, causing irritability and mental distress. One day alone with pen and paper is usually the only way to begin the recovery/discovery process so necessary to well-being and centeredness.” so, that is how i am feeling these days, here in chicago. in a gray work cube. in an almost all black office outfit (albeit red tights.) how are you , friends? do you still come round these parts? | | |
| the words "i'm sorry" have taken on this selfish connotation for me. when i think about mumbling them or scribbling them and sending them off i wonder why. i think something is heavy on my heart and that well enough should always be left alone. things are quiet and that is inspiring me to be, as well.
but, i miss you, millikin people. this is unrelated to the above musing, for the most part. but, still. don't you miss this interconnected universe we were all attached to and walked through everyday? and it's all dissolving. we have this big chunk of millikin people here in the city, but i've seemed to have missed the out on that reorganizing of the friendly group. and that is just how life organizes itself, sometimes, but the point is it is a change. and there are things in the world that exist to tell specific people and when those people are no longer just down a single road, they have to stay in your head and unsaid now.
stephanierosewilliams@gmail.com
that is for you to use. i want to send letters. i am unwilling to lose you. or to let you forget my handwriting. or the words i misspell. give me your address at my email and i will send you something to say hi. i promise.
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| so, it turned out to be london, paris, edingurgh, los angeles. but still. here i am with half a week left of my excursion from life and i'm a little ready to go back to chicago.
i don't really feel like writing. i just thought i'd let whoever reads this know i'm not lost somewhere in europe. in fact, remember how you used to always think "college would be so great, if it weren't for classes." well, for the past 3 days, i've reverted to college person behavior, hanging out in my sister's dorm room, sitting around in sweatpants, spending too much money on junk food and wasting my life away on t.v. and facebook. it's been relaxing. plus, los angeles has this crazy thing called "sunshine" and i've been digging on that, too.
i go back to being a real person friday. and then my jeff turns old and we will celebrate by playing with baby mackenzie and eating crab legs and being glad to be able to see each other again after three weeks of only puncuated phone calls and emails.
i am not interesting as of late. traveling seems to have cleared my head and i can think only of jogging and bbq-ing chicken in a small chicago back yard for a boy with big brown eyes and my favorite arms.
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| then moving to chicago.
i'm sorry, but that is cool. have fun in the burbs, suckers.
love!
ste
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| so, a horrible thing happened.
i have finally begun to unpack my college stuff so that i can integrate it into my rest-of-my-life stuff. this is so i can choose from this conglomeration of stuffs and choose what i will take with me to my new apartment in two months and what i will throw or give away.
in the unpacking of the college stuff, i realized that the journal i've been writing in since i went to paris two christmases ago is not lodged in with my school things, as formerly believed. it is just not there. it is no box, between no other books, and wrapped in no random sweater of any kind. it is just gone.
but! a thing cannot just evaporate. a thing cannot just be sucked into a blackhole that randomly appeared in Aston 420 as i was hastily packing after graduation. no, a thing can only be overlooked, lost and left somewhere else, existing only to be found and in this situation the thing in question was not found by me.
me, being the only person in the world who could handle what is written in the pages of the turquoise, suede book. somewhere, the last two years of my life's secrets is swimming around and maybe being read by someone who is not only undeserving but also lacking the proper context with which to put the things said in the journal and therefore that person is thinking that one stephanie rose williams is a crackpot and maybe this person is right but the point is they are not allowed to know!
so. the thing is gone. that is horrible.
what is funny to me is that i am writing, currently, in another journal-type forum (xanga!) that i have no problem letting anyone who has internet access read. so maybe that is what i get for being such an emotional exhibitionist of sorts. i've been masquerading here, obviously neglecting the sanctity of my REAL journal, and now, due to my neglect my every dark secret and nervous thought is out in the open for anyone to find.
so.
there it is. i am mortified.
hopefully, it is in a garbage heap somewhere in decatur where it will remain buried until the apocalypse.
but also, an aside for you, as i was filtering through all my boxes of junk, i finished listening to two masterfully crafted mix tapes made by someone i think may like me despite already knowing all the horrible and irrational and maniacal things written in the previously discussed book- someone who watched me through them- and my heart is soaring. so to be honest nothing can get me down right now.
but. losing that journal really is a bummer as it has been the record book of a most cataclysmic time. you wouldn't think something so tiny could hold the weight of world travel, and death and divorce and love and heartache and relentless and unforgiving introspection. it was so dear to me. if you find it, or have already, please don't judge me.
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