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Newt Stremple [userpic]

new journal for new times

September 21st, 2008 (01:15 am)

i don't live here anymore.

i'm learning to speak an unfamiliar language.

Newt Stremple [userpic]

(no subject)

September 14th, 2008 (12:23 am)
sitting: bedroom
listening: Lauren Shera via MySpace

I want to scream, "I won! I succeeded and you failed!" But I know the only reason I am this angry is because you were suppose to be here, with me, and you aren't. I miss you and you haven't called in awhile.

Newt Stremple [userpic]

parents: the epitome

August 19th, 2008 (06:07 pm)
sitting: central library
listening: pandora radio


Newt Stremple [userpic]

So there IS a god...

July 31st, 2008 (12:08 pm)

sitting: albina public library

I was going to check my Facebook 'cause people'd commented on my photos and shtuff and then I thought, "I could search *'s name again and see that picture." And I thought, "No, that would be bad. Very bad. And not at all in the getting-over-him mode." But I knew that I'd do it anyway. But Facebook is down right now, so what can I do? I was getting jittery just thinking about looking up his name again, and seeing that picture. Good god.

On the upside, it's done wonders for other parts of my life - parts that I was sort of stagnant in. Like self esteem. Self image. Etc. And I really appreciate that. So, thanks *. 


So confusing.

Newt Stremple [userpic]

(no subject)

July 31st, 2008 (11:54 am)
Tags: ,

sitting: albina library

Oh my gawd. So emotional. Seriously.

I'm reading up on UCP because I have a job interview with them (my first real job interview in my entire life) and there's this video about sending old wheelchairs to "third world countries" and it has sappy music and it just made me cry. Good god.

Newt Stremple [userpic]


July 29th, 2008 (06:58 pm)

So I really should be over this by now. Really. And then he happens to have Facebook - who knew? - and there's this tiny 1-inch picture of him. And I can feel myself blush.

Oh gracious.

(And, no: friending him is so not happening.)

Newt Stremple [userpic]


July 29th, 2008 (06:44 pm)
Tags: ,

sitting: winch on green

Currently reading:

  • Neverwhere by Neil Gaimon*

  • Sex for One by Betty Dodson*

  • quirkyalone by Sasha Gagen

  • Letters to A Young Poet by Rilke**

  • The Meaning of Marxism by Paul D'Amato**

  • The Stolen Sharpie Revoluntion by Joe Biel

  • Finished in the past month:
  • The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton

  • The Quiet Little Woman by Louisa May Alcott**

  • The Book of Leviathon by Peter Blegvad*

  • In the Floyd Archives by Sarah Boxer*

  • *On the shelves of the Winch (that's the house I live in, by the way)
    **Read entirely at the library

    So you could say I've had a lot of time on my hands and not a whole lot of concentration.

    Also: job interview on Thursday for the front desk internship at United Cerebral Palsy. I really want this job. And tomorrow is my first time volunteering at Free Geek - which I'm doing because I've also applied for their front desk internship. ::crosses fingers:: For the former I need to buy dress shoes. For the latter I don't know what combination of cute hipster/punk/patched to put together. (And upon admitting that I think that much about my clothes, I open myself up to the possibility of you thinking, "She thinks that much about it and ends up wearing that?!" and also "How ditsy!").


    How are you?

    Newt Stremple [userpic]


    July 25th, 2008 (12:05 pm)

    The three most influencial things in my life, with out a doubt, have been my parents, myself, and the library.

    Newt Stremple [userpic]

    (no subject)

    July 22nd, 2008 (11:51 am)
    sitting: winchongreen
    listening: Lauren Shera

    I feel a little bit lost and don't know what to grab on to. I don't even know how to start grabbing. I don't have the time to sit down and find all I need inside myself. Time, not as in minutes and hours, but time as in the place the situation. Nothing is steady. I'm still there where I know nothing will move if I quit trying to move forward. So I can't, right now, take that time for myself. Because, in the long run, it'll just get me more stuck. So I'm plugging forward all over again. Blindly, mostly. Tell me where I'm going. Tell me there is something secure in my future, something I can nestle into, something I can dig my feet into like warm sand, so I don't fall over when I try to reach up, look up. The ocean, we kept screaming, the ocean. We had no idea how close we were and the waves shocked us, the horizon so unclear against the sky we'd been seeing all day. The ocean, we screamed. And we rolled up our pants like we were in a movie or a song and I screamed out across the vastness and when we laughed it seemed so full, like it sucked up some of the vastness of the sea. But maybe that was false security, too. It all is, isn't it? It's all false security. Or temporary, at least. I've been spending evenings with someone I hardly know, talking about our minds and foot holds and choice and reality, and we've said how many times now that the past is true because it was and who are we to tell our younger selves what it's all about? The moment is not complete enough, it's not cinched quite tight enough, I can still move, wiggle, feel the air between me and the binding. And I might slip out, like wetwash watercolor, like it going outside of the graphite lines you marked. I need that tightness, that feeling of shoelaces tugged on tight, so I can feel complete and seamless. I've been trying to forgive my hands. At night I lay on my side in bed with aching knees and ankles and am afraid of what my hands have done. I try to tell myself that it was my brain, not my hands, who did it, who betrayed me all over again. But there's something so incomprehensively contradictory about that: my brain's betrayal of itself. I know we get a whole new suit of skin every couple days/hours/whatever, but what I've done feels like a tatoo: so deep it gets past even that, even that assurance of change, of shifting, of rebirth. Your metaphor reaches past me. Your mind more out of control than I could dream of. I drew hearts and ribs the other day at the library, feeling inadequate and uneducated with big anatomy books full of sickly-colored drawings, but my dull pencil and stolen pen came through and convinced me that I've got something still, even though it's as transient as everything else, as fluid, as untrue. So I drew severed veins and still hearts outside of the bodies they belong in but I couldn't draw the skulls. They were too commercialized, too bare. How do I tell you, sweet down to earth boy, that the inside of my skull, the pulpy matter that makes up my body, means as little to me as my art means to you. How do I explain that this flesh and skin and this great machine that gives me life feels so far away: distant, like the melding horizon, like the sky that became the ocean that we were so surprised to see. The ocean, we screamed. The ocean.

    (Oh my god, I think I just wrote.)


    Newt Stremple [userpic]

    email from mama

    July 11th, 2008 (05:11 pm)
    sitting: albina public library
    listening: pandora

    My mom just emailed me the email she sent Grace/NBTSC asking where to send her $50 donation for the scholarship fund. My mum's been so stressed about money lately - they're moving in a couple months and haven't sold our house, haven't found a house in Walla Walla, and she hasn't found a job over there yet, either. This makes me cry. My heart feels big. It's her recognizing what camp has been. I feel like writing "I can't believe I'm not going this year" but I can - I can believe it.

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