tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33356432009-02-20T23:30:04.738-08:00the heart of a poet" . . . seek those which your own everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts, and the belief in some sort of beauty-- describe all these with a loving, quiet, humble sincerity. . ."Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comBlogger289125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978703893982262003-12-20T19:51:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:52:39.606-08:00And I sang holy holyCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978604010335302003-12-20T19:49:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:50:59.403-08:00My heart is sick of being in chains.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978480444348402003-12-20T19:47:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:48:55.873-08:00ARGH.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978304134835662003-12-20T19:44:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:45:59.593-08:00STUPID!Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1065208444868439072003-10-03T12:14:00.000-07:002003-10-03T12:14:04.793-07:00Thanks for the help, everyone. :) It turns out I am taking next semester off-- I'll drive myself through French, since it's an all-or-nothing tuition matter at my university.
Also, I am determined to write frequently in here, as I think it does me good. Consquently, I shall bore you all stupid with my pretensious attempts at book reviewing. (Seriously, I've always wanted to muse about booksCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1064522794429746772003-09-25T13:46:00.000-07:002003-09-25T13:46:33.943-07:00I'd like some advice/opinions, because I'm really torn about what to do. (Cross posted with my live journal.)
Two nights ago, my dad suggested that I not go to school next semester. There are certainly several reasons not to go. One, I'm transferring to a different university (U of U, a public school) in fall 2004 and the requirements for major/graduation are different from BYU's. Two, I came Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1063916890494846602003-09-18T13:28:00.000-07:002003-09-18T13:28:10.270-07:00I've got my trial by jury coming up in an hour-- I volunteered to be one of the first to have his/her (double pronouns) short story workshopped, and I'm so nervous. It's not as good as it ought to be-- I spent only 12 or so hours on it, but it could be decent if I had a few more rewrites.
But details, I don't want to put out my little monkey before critical eyes. I remember when I was littleCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1063681092364098042003-09-15T19:46:00.000-07:002003-09-15T20:06:07.466-07:00I'm standing in my basement, playing the Bend It Like Beckham soundtrack on my brother's discman (mine is perenially out of battery power) and listening to Jind Mahi. And I start remembering what it was like to dance all the time, to stand in the halls with my feet in third position. I was never much good, but I loved dancing. On stage. In my basement, with the dirty window for a mirror. Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1063392341195791372003-09-12T11:45:00.000-07:002003-09-12T11:45:41.100-07:00I want to start this again.
I had to stop, just for a little (a long?) while, because things were spinning out of control. Other people can't make you feel like this.
Like the rain and the apple juice?
I was going to wait for my own domain, but that'll be a little while in coming. I have to build things slowly.
I write in a scribbler a lot these days. Ostensibly for creative writing.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1058568435604563372003-07-18T15:47:00.000-07:002003-07-18T15:47:15.476-07:00When I drive, I get lost too much. I used to think because I never was much of a window-watcher. Even when my eyes are half-focused, trained absently on the melting blur of houses and cars and sidewalks, I'm thinking about something else. I daydream too much. As a consequence my brain fragments everyday images for nighttime. I'm too accustomed to the fantastic, I say tongue-in-cheek, but I'mCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1058222559947412102003-07-14T15:42:00.000-07:002003-07-14T15:42:39.950-07:00I want to get on a bus and ride across America. I'll take just a knapsack and a series of notebooks, one blue-veined sheet stacked onto another. I think I'd write poetry in New York and Tennessee. I could listen to Tori Amos and Miles Davis where I'm supposed to, you know, somewhere "up north." I could take in movies on a dusty summer afternoon, stop in little independent bookshops, and walk Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1057703305119364302003-07-08T15:28:00.000-07:002003-07-08T15:28:25.066-07:00In the way of things, I've been cleaning up my old live journal and refurbishing it with a few sticks of old furniture. I've been wanting a cozy little alcove where I can just ramble on incessently about fanfic, about clothes, and all the rest of the silly trifles that I love. I'll still be updating this, but I want this to be more of a "writer's journal," something thoughtful (or at least Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1057028089342786792003-06-30T19:54:00.000-07:002003-06-30T19:54:49.376-07:00When July slams head-on into Utah, I get sleepy all the time. Riding the bus, the way the automobiles carry me, gently swaying to and fro like some mechanical hammock, I feel my chin sink, nodding off as I listen to Order of the Phoenix on CD. It's funny, because when I wake up at the transfer station, I find myself borrowing a British accent. Blimey, I said, look at the size of that. Then I Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056759752904355662003-06-27T17:22:00.000-07:002003-06-27T17:22:32.906-07:00Even contemporary desert people have a fierce love for water. Or maybe it's a fascination, a disbelief built from arid air. It's the year two-thousand-and-three, and some segemented part of my mind watches suburban grass with widened eyes. Or when I drive past the white pipes stitched across the cornfields up north, it feels like that. So when I stop by the reservoir that sparkles cleanly in Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056648821980032792003-06-26T10:33:00.000-07:002003-06-26T10:33:42.043-07:00Going on a minibreak until tomorrow evening.
Have packed scarf in manner of Grace Kelly; unfortunately, hair seems to dictate that I won't arrive in similiar fashion.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056223189227186832003-06-21T12:19:00.000-07:002003-06-22T00:53:33.740-07:00I've just finished reading Order of the Phoenix.
For my thoughts/reactions to it, go here. It contains MAJOR SPOILERS, people, so I will not be responsible for anyone who accidentally sees it.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056115250583695882003-06-20T06:20:00.000-07:002003-06-20T06:20:50.606-07:0016 hours until Order of the Phoenix.
Fangirl or not, I am so, so excited.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055995948645079432003-06-18T21:12:00.000-07:002003-06-18T21:12:28.770-07:00Don't peek over the painted screen-- my blog is slipping into something a little more comfortable. Excuse any clothes tossed about the room, a girl has to put her slippers somewhere.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055975292693316902003-06-18T15:28:00.000-07:002003-06-18T15:28:12.446-07:00I went to Nordstroms the other day, in between catching the 830 and the 811, because nobody at the bus platform smokes in the designated area and I like the way the mall smells. I also like wandering from shop to shop. I don’t buy anything, half because I don’t want to spend the money. The other half of the reason is because I like the way things look on shelves. I like to go to the perfume Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055542173070078232003-06-13T15:09:00.000-07:002003-06-13T20:01:18.816-07:00This is my sister and I. No exaggeration.
Voicemail: You have one new message.
Message: Hi, Camie, it's Katie. Is Clarissa real? Did Virginia write a book about Laura?
Me (picking up and dialing phone at work): Katie, Clarissa is from the book Mrs. Dalloway, and the original title of that book was The Hours. Michael Cunningham created the character of Laura. Who on earth has been telling Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055476272742769222003-06-12T20:51:00.000-07:002003-06-12T20:51:12.690-07:00I know I haven't said much lately, but everything is so cram-packed together. Getting up, walking, lifting weights in my basement. Toast and lemonade for breakfast while I watch bits of The Nanny. I read- I read a lot, even for me, and my room is filled to bursting with books. Three bags from my university library. I'm watching movies and the telly in between meals. I write little scraps ofCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-954893952003-06-09T20:45:00.000-07:002003-06-09T20:45:31.060-07:00I've been so tired lately.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-953135462003-06-04T20:32:00.000-07:002003-06-04T20:32:15.413-07:00Okay, before I turn in for the night (pointedly ignoring e-mails, letters, stories, and sundry conversations), I just have to say one thing.
Mr. Darcy I get, but James Bond? Superman? Puh-leeze. Where's my Brandon? A certain grey-streaked Broadway producer, anyone? Or perhaps a starry-eyed Bohemian poet?
If we're going to go for the man of our dreams, don't give me that Heathcliff nonsenseCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-952203462003-06-02T20:32:00.000-07:002003-06-02T20:32:13.693-07:00I was in my first accident today.
I wasn't driving-- I wasn't even in a car. And it was just a sharp, shuddering movement that threw me forward in the bus, my hands flying out in a reflex I didn't even know I had. Dropping White Oleander on the floor, my mind abruptly jerked out of crushed diamonds and turquoise dust, and I couldn't even imagine where I was.
It wasn't anything big, really, Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-950634532003-05-29T20:23:00.000-07:002003-05-29T20:23:19.193-07:00And they hold you like I want to
And they give you what I want to
And they take it like I want to
And they make it and they break it
Why must you reject me
Why can't you protect me
And so I write love letters that I tear up and won't send, because you don't want to hear it and I'm not quite sure I want to say it, but. . .
I didn't know how much I would miss you until I realized that you were Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.com