Tuesday, February 15, 2005

"The best kind of love, it's not always an easy road. Because life will throw you curve balls. People change, people grow and sad things happen sometimes. I think that the greatest loves are those that have overcome obstacles because they have withstood those things that life can throw at them." -The Notebook By Nicholas Sparks

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Diary By Chuck Palahniuk
Just for the record, knowing when people are only pretending to like you isn't such a great skill to have.
You writting, you walking down a street, your whole life shows in every physical action. How you hold your shoulders, Angel says. It's all an art. What you do with your hands, you're always blabbing your life story.
Who knows where an idea comes from. Our insparation. Why do we imagine what we imagine.
"What I mean is sometimes, for an artist, chronic pain can be a gift."
Your handwritting . The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It's all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self-portrait.
Its funny the way your mind tries to make sense of chaos.
The truth is, wherever you choose to be, it's the wrong place.
"We all die." She says, " The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will".
It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to rember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We must learn so little from peace.
What they don't teach you in art school is how your whole life is about discovering who you already were.
What the don't teach you in art school. How you're still always trapped.
People killed in a fire, people in long-term vegetative state, they all end up posed about the same. The same as a baby waiting to be born.
Wonder When you'll Miss me- By Amanda Davis
It was like I'd left behind something at Berrybrook besides the forty-eight pounds and seven months. Some invisable part of my brain forgotten on a shelf somewhere, some key ingredient to navigating the world abandoned in that stupid Tudor buliding on that stupid green hill. I didn't even know how to look for what was gone, how to recognize it if I found it. How to ask for help.
But I didn't want to be better than anyone. I just wanted to be me. And, yes, I wanted to show up, to be noticed. But inside some of me still wanted desperately to disappear. Of course that's what had gotten me to Beryybrook in the first place: trying to disappear.
Then each morning I woke up to the blinding Berrybrook sunlight and thought I was a little girl in my bed at home again, that my father would come and wake me at any minute. And then, slowly, I blinked awake to the ceiling tiles and the scrffed wood floor, the chrome-rimmerd bed and the hum of the room, and relized that I'd grown up.
But it was just one more thing. One more way the days would form and even at the bottom of everything I was, I just didn't care that much right then. It was all about one more day and just for now and every other cliche in the world. It was all about waking and eating and running and sleeping. And it was about getting through to the next day, all of it even, nobody hurt. Me alive, though I still wasn't sure i wanted to be.
"Careful." She gave a snort. "Jesus. You're so careful that you're a danger to yourself..."
When he says, "I love you, honey," you realize that he never calls you by your name. You will say good-bye for all the right reasons. You're tired of living in wait for his apocalypse. You have your own fight on your hands, and though it's no bigger or more noble than his, it will rewuire all of your energy. It's you who has to hold on to the earth. You have to tighten your grip- which means letting go of him.

-The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank
Before dinner, my grandmother read the newspaper, tsk-tsking and complaining to no one in particular that the world was going to hell. Everything was wrong; nothing was the way it used to be."What do you think was so good about the good old days?" I asked in exasperation. But I heard how harsh my voice was and didn't like it. I said, "What do you miss, I mean?"While she thought, I waite to make my point: that everything was much better now than it used to be; I'd cite the civil rights and women's movements."The boy who lit the street lamps in the evening," she said, finally. "HE carried a stool with him."I understood then-- it was like missing Nantucket-- and I put my hand on top of hers. It occure dto me that everything was more complicated than I thought. - The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank