Surgery!

Went well. I remember a LOT of beginning-- the anesthesia, the iv, all the cords, the conversation. Heather told me she was about to give me some stuff to make me feel even better than the laughing gas-- which actually did have me in a fit of endless giggles-- and that was the last thing I remember before waking up in the car halfway home. I've been in the chair all day, just kicking back.

The surgery included the removal of a sideways wisdom tooth and some steroid trigger point injections in my jaw to help with my tendinitis. I've been feeling better throughout the day! I've slept most of the time, but I've also watched "Julie and Julia" and am about to watch "The Hangover" with my sister if she'll jus wake up from her nap.

No one reads my blog,
Carrie Anne

Today is a very special day. I have so much to do, and so little time left to do it. I have make-up work to do, I have another draft of an essay due on Monday, and yet I can't feel any of the weight. I'm not stressed! I'm only inspired. Today I wanted to record a video for youtube of my cover of Samson, by Regina Spektor. It was looking like an epic fail, because I couldn't get a good take. Hell, I couldn't even finish the song. But by the 17th time I tried it, I was smiling. I was excited as I am curiously excited now.

Breathing white sky,
With the weight of wet chemicals.
A sigh into the dead leaf, careening
Against a silver light.
Perception has its limits.
I have my you.
Snow in the air,
Like a kiss to the skin of my arm,
Each little hair rigid.
Each little sound vivid.
And I can still breathe--
Like the endless somber sky.


Have a perfect day,
Love,
Carrie Anne.

It's About Time

I want to be a writer. I want to write insane scribblings that provoke concern for my mental health. And then I want to provoke a belly laugh, or even a chuckle. A chuckle would suffice every now and then. If I could only provoke tears... Or a smile. A sigh. A gasp. As for now, all that my writing provokes is a shake of the head and a thousand or so red, purple, or blue marks on the texts that carry on into the margins. My English class has me questioning my ability. I've never been criticized so epically in cold, permanent, red scratches.

Damn it.

English class is supposed to be my favorite class! I think I hate it this year. Despite my lack of my usual creative, poetic outlet through prose and free-writes, I think like a writer. I have this incredibly nerdy need to describe situations in my mind as it would be written in a novel.

But writers don't get a 77 on an essay.

I repeat. Damn it.

Love and frustration,
Carrie Anne.

It's certainly been a while since I've written you, blog.
I am realizing...

My life is a terrible thing spotted with moments of happiness...
Or that my life is a wonderful thing with trying situations between the laughs.

My outlook is whatever I choose. I'm in command of what gets done when, and how well it gets done. I'm aware of my potential. I'm aware of my passions. But am I aware of others? The people I care about? The people who make me want to improve myself? The people I could possibly love?

Yes and no. I deeply enjoy the company of others, but when the opportunity comes up that I might have a close relationship with someone, I consistently find myself backing out smoothly from the situation. Why is it that I can't make the time? The effort? I do care. But It's getting hard. I've seen too many of my friends turn to something opposite of their ideals, or opposite of mine. Either way it's difficult, and when distance is added to the equation, I've had enough. I don't easily keep up with people.

This can change. But I'm not sure I'm ready for it yet. I do know I owe it to people to show my empathy once and a while. My irrational fear of being a burden is a heavy fear indeed, and I it comes at the cost of hours freed, spent blogging about my issues rather than laughing and doing normal things with friends.

I'm dramatic enough as it is, anyway. Obviously. I don't know if having more people in my life would ease the drama. (laugh-out-loud)

I'm a complete nerd.
And I find that's okay.

Love,
Carrie Anne!

Humans are so strange. I'm a hypocrite for this. But my point today is that we tend to immediately dislike people for being themselves. You have to ease into being sincere. Sincerely, some people can be hilarious, peculiar, and emotional. It's not anything I'd be opposed to with time, but first impressions are seemingly false. I'd immediately associate with the calm and collected kid over the excitable dork... but in time I'd want the excitable dork to hang around. It makes more sense in my head.


So I guess it's not about who you are that counts, it's when you decide to reveal that to others. First impressions are formatted to society, structured, and FALSE. Or are they?

I'm a judgmental person apparently. So thi is probably just my opinion.

Oh Well.

Sincerely,
Carrie Anne.

"...But it's beautiful."

Sometimes I wonder the inevitable wonders. Why am I here? Who am I? How much control do I have? And then I remember that it will soon be over. As long as it has a definite end, in relativity to the time I will be absent from my decaying corpse, I have a short life. But how am I alive? How am I alive, rather, in relativity to others? Does the woman with sharp green eyes and unkempt dark hair have a brighter perception than I? Am I perceiving things wrong? Am I at fault? Are these problems obtained by shameful means, are they lessons I’ve ignored? I’m a fool then. I’m a fool to have these skewed images and perceived senses. It’s not there. And if it isn’t there, where am I? I’m not here. I can’t be here if all I’m doing is taking up space while my mind is off corrupting itself with temptations of its own. It’s so easy to let the sleep take over, even while I’m awake. But it isn’t sleep at all, for I wake up rested. But I’m not awake at all, for I sleepwalk and wipe at my flesh. I was free when I was empty of experience, full of life. I was programmed to do this. To stop feeling the real effect of the swaying dandelions, and wishing for old friends. It’s like a motion picture now. I know what I should say, but I don’t experience the thoughts for myself. There it is again. The tapping, the creeping of the particles, cloaked in clear blankets, dragging their boneless bodies across my uncloaked flesh. And it’s gone. I’ve resisted the urge to let go. To sit back and listen to my mind is to watch a film that projects something real. It’s just as real as the things I experience, anyway. And this is my trapped emotion. This is the way I was born not to be. The way it ought to be. And I wouldn’t rather be anyone else. To lack this confusion is to stop the room from spinning, where every corner holds a new image. Where every rotation reveals a melody, and every silent moment unveils a scrambled mass of ingenuity. Its not accessible, but it's beautiful.

SIMON'S ROCK.