vanilla raindrops

email: noreia@planet-save.com.

This is my blogchalk:
United States, California, sometimes Steiermark, Austria, something bored teenagers say when they speak useless words into brick walls of cotton candy, English, German, Noreia,creative writing, fiction, reading, college student, strange, cat power, mogwai, arap strap, dresden dolls, white oleander, the earth, my butt, and other big, round things, welcome to the dollhouse, fuckers.

body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by BodyPUNKS!

 

i am going to work at a record store.  a music store.  and i am going to go to school.  i'm going to seek people out and ask them what color they love most and what they dream about and who they look up to.  i'm going to ask them if they've ever been overwhelmed by beauty or sadness, if they've wanted to fall into music like deep, dark water.

damn it.  am i always going to hate getting older?  there are phases and phases, life passes in boxes and windows for me, chunks of time colored by leaves falling, by taking walks, by distorted rock guitars and bitter, scratchy-voiced singers. 

i think i fear the loss of youth because i see the middle-aged people around me, and they seem more hollow, more subdued, shadows and echoes of who they once were.  you can talk to them every day, and it takes months to see maybe a spark of the passion and recklessness and freedom and edge they once had -- and that's if they slip up and let you see that depth in their eyes, behind the cover of years.  they're so normal.

i don't want to spend my life lost in Lifetime movies.  even the idea of having my own house seems empty and final. 

or maybe it's that i hang out with seventeen-year-olds.

or maybe it's that i'm lonely.  i hide in music and goofy teenage novels, in creating things, stringing words together, in exploring parks by the beach, sitting on playground equipment or under willow trees, taking lost construction cones home with me.  i miss being somebody's girl.

the strange thing is, i'm not alone.  but there it is in my chest, this thing that drives me to seek for someone who must be somewhere.  someone who feels the magic in thom yorke's voice over the strange vibration of guitar strings, who walks in the dark and smokes, who thrashes and writhes in music, who breathes it all in and bleeds it out.  we used to be that.  we used to be closer to that.  i resent how normal we've become, how predictable.  i want everything to be new, everything to be possible.  it's in finding bent up pieces of metal to give to each other, in spending hours decorating letters while listening to "fuck you all!" being screamed from mix-tapes.  it's in the bricks of a.s.w., in hair dyeing disasters and stupid boys, in the way i snuck to the bathroom to put on makeup even at night so you'd think i was pretty.  it's in the way it felt to trudge over sidewalks in our skater shoes, to be ready for anything.  i think now you think i'm demanding.  it's just that i need all of this.  give me all of this.  don't be anyone else. 

once, after i got a new, short haircut, i was told i looked like peter pan.  maybe that's appropriate.

Posted by: noreia at 23:40 | link | comments |