8/30/17, 10:33am

I suppose I can’t really be sure whether I’m only home for a short enough time that there’s not enough time for things to blow up or whether I’ve matured enough to preserve my healthy self in a toxic environment. I hope it’s the latter. More likely, it’s a combination of both, possibly skewed towards the former —

I’m coming more to terms with the fact that my parents are people first and parents second: that being a parent was a role they played, but not their entire being. It’s having lived a summer as a bona fide, financially independent, solo adult playing her own one-dimensional roles out for certain people. It’s then having come home to a mother who is now a middle-aged single woman falling way too fast for a middle-aged single man, and although he seems like a wonderful person, it’s all too fast and too much and too middle-school naiveté all the same. It’s noticing that my father is now an aging single emotionally-stunted man with a twisted worldview that will never bring happiness or community, that perhaps if he’d been more lucky he’d have gone down in history books as some sort of crazy genius, but instead fishes every day and gives the catchings to friends he can’t bring himself to truly trust and is happiest when reliving small inventions of his childhood. They have been freed of the immediate role of parenting and have become people — and it’s taken me this long to see that, to treat them as damaged people and not adversary parents, to realize that I can give them love and understanding and support without being influenced by their toxic philosophies and fights.

It’s good to be away. Maybe it can also be good to be home.

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08/15/17, 8:25am

dream

I’m in a helicopter or some sort of flying device with my brother next to me and my father and some other man across from me. We’re strapped in with seatbelts, hunched with the bad posture of awkwardness. We’re chatting uncomfortably. It becomes clear that Dad had been gone a while and we hadn’t known what he was up to, and on his latest job, he’d been in the area of (I suppose New York) and thought he’d visit.

He explains that he’s been in the business of going to the government and learning about how it works, and then bringing that information back to his clients. This brain-heavy work makes sense — if it’s one thing my dad is always good at, it’s having quick brains.

We find out that he goes to get the information from the Statue of Liberty, which for some reason completely normally is situated in an idyllic garden, with a large swimming pool and a small flowered island, as well as granite steps on one wide overflowing with greenery. The other man’s kids are here as well; they’re SoCal kids, cross-country kids: girls with long blonde hair and guys with tanned skin and skinny wired muscles.

My dad goes about learning or whatever, and it’s going fine until the SOL wakes up. For a bit, we’re not sure what she’s feeling. It almost seems fine. Then, she begins slinging slow, huge, blimp-like donuts, which we easily avoid. It’s a slow game to jog to the other side of the pool and dodge her donut. Someone yells about how it’s appropriative of Italians, which is nonsensical.

But the donuts come faster and faster and it spirals pretty quickly into something terrifying. She’s sprinting around the pool, as are us kids, and we’re hiding desperately in the shrubbery but she’s finding us there, and suddenly there’s another giant: a dude in an orange shirt, and he’s extremely fast and terrifying, running hard and fast around and squishing us. They squish one of the girls: I’m not there, I’m hiding, but someone yells that her blood is yellow. I try to hide in plain sight, in a groove of the stairs, but I’m too big; my mother is there, screaming, and the boy has set his sights on squishing me and I’m so tired I can’t run anymore and so I shoot straight out and fly out of the garden and push through a small bubble, it seems, and it logically seems I’m safe but somehow I don’t feel so because I keep flying without looking back — I wake up with my heart pounding.

02/24/17, 4:17pm

13 reasons why: the author said that he left out modern technology, and had the characters acknowledge the outdatedness of old technology present. I think this instilled in me a need to be timeless; I never wanted to regret something I did.

At the same time, a part of me felt the need to be completely temporal. My journals were — and are — still ‘snapshots’: reflections of me at a specific moment of time. I knew I was ever-changing, and always wanted to grasp, in some small way, that me that was present at that moment, knowing that that me would be gone in a year, a week, an hour.


Josh, traditional vs. experimental; he was everything that I had been growing up, to the extreme, and I recoiled strongly against that. Looking back, I think I see: he was a catalyst for me; he was a springboard from which I launched forward; he was the stable contrast against which I formed my new identity against — not around. I had the opposite problem: I didn’t morph myself to fit him; I morphed myself to clash.

Or did I just grow by myself and happen to clash? Causation or coincidence? Both?

I am in college. We are young. We are forever changing. Relationships are fleeting, but perhaps they should be.

Do I regret it? Is anything good or bad? No — rather, things just *are*. It’s not our job to judge, but to note.

07/07/17, 8:28am

I believe this was jotted thoughts for a poem idea

snow taking up ad space

or is it just blowing back (futilely), wind on the front of a bird’s wings

snow falling

ice statues

there is a special kind of cautious shame in those who bike upwards on a one way street

and some lack even this: they pedal lazily, bike turning side to side

it is a new york sort of reckless meandering

07/10/17, 8:59am

dream

I somehow plop into a world of animated animals

a pelican with a beautifully psychedelic beak

about to make friends with a hyper-friendly kangaroo horse? had taught it the mirror stage of recognizing itself. I had two cuts on my face that I had done for myself (something symbolic? to do with directions? the directions towards the home of a rhino that was the father of whoever I was with) and the horse made sure that that wasn’t what the rhino had done to me

farting zebras

the rhino invited me to his home, and I had to look it up in google maps. it was called “bad street”, but it ended up being in spanish, so it was “mal street”, which I didn’t realize until after he’d spelled it out for me. as he turned away and walked up the stairs, I said, “bad street?” and he said “that’s the way I like it” and strolled away