The Palace of Pretend

Itching ankles and undone homework and Brian Adams and missing the sweaty taste of Times Square and nicotine and dark eyeliner...

I just checked my email and Amac wrote that VJ is really sick... I don't know why, but it drives me crazy to be here and to be so disconnected. I feel some repulsive and sickening addiction to my life at school... It's as if my heart pounds at is separation from life and I dance in limbo now, outside of any reality and nothing is the home it may appear.

And I feel like my life is a process crippled and then teased by the summer. But God, I want to be home at school and have myself back (although that is always what I seem to be trying to run the farthest from). (Je suis Kleinzack. Crick Crack!) And I miss them (him) I do... I do...

(Swallow the Gold!!! Just do it!!!)

I hope VJ's okay.

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6/29 still and at the ballet. A beautiful theater of red, white and gold-- a new favorite combination. And (blessed day) I am sitting by chance alone...

We dot the landscape and I can only think of the brilliance of the 18th century and the colors that come only from imagination and the harp will be my heart tonight and things feel right in this palace of pretend and I know that the cowboy will kill me and I know where I wish to stand...

And now as I wait for it to begin, I feel my eyes start to burn and wonder what will happen when the music surges up and will I sleep?

"Vive la guerre eternelle," he said.

And what language is this?

(None... no language... Vive la guerre eternelle).

And the floating sounds of an instrument in practice hang like question marks on the crystal ropes of the chandelier.

Translate! Translate!

And a man below waves his hand in frustration (no, I take it back,more like irritation). And people packed like cattle begin to groan. A slow hiss whispers warnings to us all, but goes unnoticed beneath the overbearing "A" causing my spine to straighten and my hair to stand on ends. And I see the windows reflected in his glasses and wonder if he is a Flemish (Dutch?) still life. Or only art as deep as the painted carving on these candied wrappers.

Things are about to begin so I should stop, but somehow, I don't want to until I have to. (When there is turquoise light in my eyes). Because the stream (as it has not done in so long) has taken hold of me and pulled me by the weight of my hair. And although I love the music, I just remembered that I hate the ballet and wonder what I am even doing here.

And I only want to hear the harp, the harp, the harp!

And then to go home and call LilSis and then to go home... When will it start? The "A" broke free long ago.

And why aren't "Socialism" and "National Socialism" the same thing?

Ah! If only for red, gold and white, beating hearts shouldn't be bleeding hearts.

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(A-D-E-F-G-AAA-F-AAA-F-AAA-D-F-E-A-F-DDDDD)

a song or poem about a court jester who is absolutely merry but waxen makeup and at the end kills himself is not missed. Crime and Punishment, the movie.

Where are you now???

Okay... Two and a half hours and the ballet would be perfect if over. Unfortunately, after a second intermission, it is only about to begin again.

My tongue burns. And someone smells.