tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91518147121454648622012-01-24T12:46:00.859-08:00Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.comBlogger551100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-12508439042465513652012-01-24T12:39:00.000-08:002012-01-24T12:46:00.867-08:00<i>(written on Oct., 2, 2011)</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>At long last </div><div>my little book and I</div><div>an amateur style</div><div>for amateur prose</div><div><br /></div><div>the streets look inviting</div><div>well-lit</div><div>the night is playing coy</div><div>it has an unexpected temper</div><div><br /></div><div>an appetite for lost girls</div><div>with the address to</div><div>independence in their pockets</div><div><br /></div><div>its a boys club club</div><div>but girls drink for free</div><div><br /></div><div>**</div><div><br /></div><div>stuck between same and different</div><div>I study the line</div><div> that marks an</div><div>abnormal stillness</div><div><br /></div><div>the calm before the storm</div><div><br /></div><div>Is all ugliness transfered (?)</div><div><br /></div><div>I fear that I will trickle</div><div>the hate</div><div>through my words</div><div>and my movements</div><div><br /></div><div>that my love </div><div>will be that much more restrained</div><div><br /></div><div>that the solitary experience</div><div>will reinforce walls</div><div>barbed wire around my eyes</div><div><br /></div><div>If you can, does that mean you are closer to?</div><div>Guilt by functionality</div><div><br /></div><div>Is every man a gun or a holster?</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe tomorrow you can call me beautiful</div><div>but tonight (and maybe tomorrow)</div><div><br /></div><div>forget that my body exists</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>love what can't be broken</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-1250843904246551365?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-28277467045967078372011-10-23T22:28:00.000-07:002011-10-23T22:44:36.338-07:00The memory is fading, throbbing<div>the unsteady streets, my steady steps</div><div>determined circles</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I would want to remember</div><div>like a heart-attack victim on a Mediterranean diet</div><div>for him and I</div><div>our biggest mistake is our genes</div><div>and our money (real or imagined)</div><div><br /></div><div>One punch is not enough</div><div>in the darkness it evaporates</div><div>it rings hollow</div><div>like defeat</div><div><br /></div><div>One punch is not enough</div><div>to rid the filth off his face</div><div>to make the ground still</div><div>under my vigilant eyes</div><div><br /></div><div>Safety first, humanity after</div><div>that's what it is to be a woman</div><div><br /></div><div>One punch is not enough</div><div>but its a start</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-2827746704596707837?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-34112823817343257982011-10-04T22:41:00.000-07:002011-10-04T22:50:53.901-07:00the hum and crackle of a headphone that's survived underwater<div>like a broken lung</div><div>or a noisy wrapper</div><div><br /></div><div>an intrusive whisper</div><div>like three friends back-packing through justice</div><div>self-doubt, guilt and longing</div><div><br /></div><div>they go together like graham crackers and soda</div><div>enough to get you by</div><div><br /></div><div>but they'll always know you're a foreigner</div><div><br /></div><div>you try too hard</div><div>you laugh too loud</div><div><br /></div><div>you have manila envelopes in your mind</div><div>to categorize each 'adventure' into the mundane</div><div>into the disengenuous</div><div><br /></div><div>It's where all the cool kids go while they're still young</div><div>you always thought you'd be back</div><div>with more patience and more money</div><div><br /></div><div>once you manage to stop</div><div>falling asleep to blue-lit rooms</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3411282381734325798?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-46070775585743144112011-10-01T16:59:00.000-07:002011-10-01T17:21:18.232-07:00Vine a aqui para encontrarme<div>and it worked</div><div>but I'm back from where I was looking out from</div><div><br /></div><div>From this distance I see myself for what I am</div><div>One and One don't make me full</div><div><br /></div><div>I am a composite, a tapenade</div><div>crushed organs, pinch of longing</div><div><br /></div><div>staring at my shoes</div><div>feeling without awareness that</div><div>I am not like the other children</div><div><br /></div><div>Here in the marketplace</div><div>behind a double-lock</div><div>where the mountains reach the horizon</div><div>I am not like the other children</div><div><br /></div><div>A splash of paint</div><div>an artist's last minute thought</div><div>a presence quite not fitting but lingering</div><div><br /></div><div>I accept this body made of shadow</div><div>I accept this identity</div><div>grasping at memories that never were</div><div>that resists the dress-size</div><div><br /></div><div>I never was very good at reciting allegiances</div><div>I never was very good at getting the headmaster's approval</div><div><br /></div><div>I watched the lines be smudged by the presence</div><div>a fussy girl</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought there was a place where I fit the grid</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll mount the line</div><div>right foot on red, left food on blue</div><div>green to yellow, arm to arm</div><div>chest fo heart</div><div>face to faces</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll live in messes</div><div>make my nest out of sticks and mud</div><div><br /></div><div>fall asleep counting imaginings</div><div>until the night allows it</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-4607077558574314411?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-4430942770505903132011-06-29T13:47:00.000-07:002011-06-29T13:59:21.609-07:00He think I'm going to trace the veins in my legs<div>that tears don't do it for me any more</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes the vastness between feels like the first encounter</div><div>Blue eyes like the open seas</div><div><br /></div><div>"That is where I come from" I said.</div><div>"That is my home."</div><div><br /></div><div>The words cut sharply into the lamp-lit room, but like glass,</div><div>they do not hold up well against gravity.</div><div><br /></div><div>I look at my face, daily, my ritual</div><div>my canteloupe shaped cheekbones</div><div>coffee stained eyes</div><div>dull-brown skin</div><div>mole-skin hair</div><div><br /></div><div>What is contained in this body, this face?</div><div>I perceive myself as a symbol</div><div>as the colonizer taught us</div><div>Nose - blanca</div><div>Hair - indio</div><div>and on and on - always one or the other</div><div><br /></div><div>always self-conscious truth-lies</div><div><br /></div><div>Reified only in the ritual. It doesn't matter.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I make lists, count weeks and outline steps - match my orbit to the moon's</div><div>As palms come together to make the maza - I contain my ancestors and destiny</div><div>into a single rondelle</div><div>softly and tenderly</div><div><br /></div><div>I will become my actions.</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-443094277050590313?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-68106690884160788102010-12-19T23:29:00.000-08:002010-12-19T23:42:27.100-08:00Steady steady<div>small steps to peace</div><div>never-ending</div><div>but with the flattening of snow</div><div>against my winter boot</div><div>a small extension of something warm</div><div>that holds</div><div><br /></div><div>I am becoming able to count my breathing</div><div>I am becoming able to point at the goodness around me</div><div>and forgive that which won't hold the warmth in place</div><div>and comes and fades</div><div><br /></div><div>and capture those moments</div><div>patiently</div><div>in the woolen palm of a gloved hand</div><div>a soft glow </div><div>a loving sigh</div><div>a hope-tinged puff of smoke</div><div>vanishing as it comes</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-6810669088416078810?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-28127309635350951172010-12-08T13:30:00.000-08:002010-12-08T13:34:17.455-08:00The cold comfort of the in-between<br />A little less than a human being<br />A little less than a happy high<br />A little less than a suicide<br /><br />-Elliot Smith<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-2812730963535095117?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-27664622835768092722010-11-02T23:17:00.000-07:002010-11-02T23:34:08.176-07:00So many ways to be sorry<br />So many ways to fail<br /><br />you can poke so many holes in the moth-bitten momments<br />you can be surprised by the amount of tears expunged from your aching body<br />rhythmically rhythmically<br /><br />always in tune<br />always weakened by the slightest stare<br />the mildest discomfort<br /><br />how are we, so fragile and so softened to withstand such turmoil<br />created by our own hands<br />like home-cooked spinach<br /><br />how are we to overcome infinite spiraling layers of guilt and grief<br />to love ourselves through action<br /><br />When I rest my head<br />on your warm chest, rising and falling with each breath<br />I try to keep your memory in every eye that I catch<br />in every human fact that I learn<br />so that I can multiply this affection<br />extend my hands and my legs<br />intertwined, unified,<br />wrapped in bundles of sober emotion<br /><br />lovingly stroking the universe<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-2766462283576809272?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-91551884598416375212010-09-28T11:36:00.000-07:002010-09-28T11:37:14.252-07:00<div>incandescent bursts</div><div>spreading across the landscape</div><div>burning through the tissue-stained-glass sky membrane</div><div>scarring the earth</div><div>with hair-thin meanders</div><div>coating the night</div><div>with smoky urban clouds</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-9155188459841637521?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-55366386654469367662010-09-25T13:21:00.000-07:002010-09-25T13:31:09.125-07:00What can I give this world that it hasn't tried already<div>I see peoples' screams in the windows of their eyes</div><div>their calloused hands mark out their years of tribulations</div><div><br /></div><div>How to redeem this merciless world?</div><div>Wiping its hands of peoples' oppression</div><div>Asserting destruction on the most broken</div><div><br /></div><div>How to make this world a world that we belong to</div><div>a house is not a home </div><div>without the warmth of loving arms</div><div>the acceptance of open doors and purposeful smiles</div><div>breaking bread, not bones </div><div><br /></div><div>we need to feel our feet against the soil</div><div>connect our veins to the vital organs</div><div>of every child, every grandmother</div><div>every cold body on a dirty street</div><div><br /></div><div>The world is our failing</div><div>and the only salvation</div><div>divine intervention exists</div><div>only in your hands</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-5536638665446936766?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-58573076349308142852010-09-02T17:45:00.000-07:002010-09-02T17:55:18.036-07:00I want I want I want<div><br /></div><div>something that exists only in memories</div><div>in shiny little boxes</div><div>taped shut with tinsel and lace</div><div><br /></div><div>hiding stale air and the <i>now</i> of then</div><div>the <i>then</i> of now</div><div>the if of when</div><div><br /></div><div>the relief in sadness</div><div>the hope in loss</div><div><br /></div><div>the you that never was</div><div>the me that never was</div><div><br /></div><div>the <i>us</i> that never was</div><div>inherently miscalculated</div><div>an over-extension of the wrist</div><div>an over-exertion of the heart</div><div>an over-heating of the speaker</div><div><br /></div><div>blaring from a chattering computer window</div><div>the never quite moved in room</div><div>but lived in</div><div>with pizza boxes</div><div>and drinking shoes</div><div>and frames with</div><div>pictures of faces blurring in and out</div><div>with time put in</div><div><br /></div><div>I want </div><div>only because I know to fear it</div><div>fear that you can touch</div><div>tattoos your heart</div><div>like a punch in the chest</div><div>wind out</div><div>legs up</div><div>breathing in</div><div>tearing out</div><div><br /></div><div>let</div><div>go</div><div>of the</div><div>unexisting</div><div>unmemory</div><div>unromance</div><div><br /></div><div>fade into being</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-5857307634930814285?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-71098027628092241722010-05-24T18:53:00.000-07:002010-05-24T19:00:35.932-07:00Somewhere a long the way<br />I lost sight of what I looked like in a crowd<br />and started thinking more<br />of whether I could be seen at all<br /><br />These violent signs<br />in tight fitting jeans<br />in violet blue skies<br /><br />These knowing glances<br />perfect poses in the park<br />jutting pavement<br />carries me a long<br />to where, to where<br />I don't know<br /><br />to hope to feel like this is my home<br />not a chronic tourist<br />a drive-by casualty<br /><br />to see myself in the crowd<br />is to lose oneself in the crowd<br />through a mirrored reflection, a window<br />optimism<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7109802762809224172?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-70530638407124453622010-02-24T18:24:00.000-08:002010-02-24T18:41:31.795-08:00I met you the summer into the 2nd<div>I was trying out my new diet</div><div>driving a long the 401</div><div>foot barely reaching the pedal</div><div><br /></div><div>you sang to me from a beat up CD</div><div>and made me feel philosophical</div><div><br /></div><div>everything was so bright then</div><div>that it hurt my eyes to see</div><div>the beauty that surrounded me</div><div>and the beauty that escaped me</div><div><br /></div><div>back then I didn't know anything but lonely</div><div>it felt right</div><div>rattling recycled thoughts through my head</div><div>saying them out loud just to feel heard</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew how to handle things more softly then</div><div>soft eyes for my brothers</div><div>loose grip on those who wronged me</div><div>so comfortable floating, unbound</div><div><br /></div><div>I was less afraid, </div><div>more classically sad</div><div>at least in memories</div><div><br /></div><div>sometimes I feel as if my bones will fuse, my jaw will lock</div><div>with these tight-fitting worries and obligations</div><div>this inability</div><div>to embrace </div><div>the boundaries of my body</div><div><br /></div><div>to get back would be to lose my way</div><div>there is only now</div><div>there is only what brought me</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7053063840712445362?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-83588356196800565702010-01-08T11:49:00.000-08:002010-01-08T11:51:09.589-08:00It's dangerous work<br />trying to get to you<br />and I think if I didn't have to<br />kill kill kill kill kill myself doing it<br />maybe i wouldn't<br />think so much of you<br /><br />-Fiona Apple<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8358835619680056570?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-86643409460472887942010-01-02T00:08:00.000-08:002010-01-02T00:22:30.947-08:00seeing how others love you<div>makes the light from my hand glow dimmer</div><div>I can't give you</div><div>anything exceptional</div><div>I become less interesting</div><div>with your eyes off of me</div><div><br /></div><div>that is the inescapable rabbit hole of my perception</div><div>I am selfish and calculating</div><div>I am more withdrawn</div><div>as you soar</div><div><br /></div><div>I keep waiting to be missed</div><div>I keep waiting to be held</div><div>and I will stop waiting</div><div>naturally</div><div>without force</div><div><br /></div><div>I return to a more basic skin</div><div>and have conversations with different versions of me</div><div><br /></div><div>and it is good for me</div><div>I become "normally attached" perhaps</div><div>more balanced</div><div><br /></div><div>but I've always preferred the fall, the longing</div><div>to the catch</div><div>I remember what it feels to belong to the ocean only</div><div><br /></div><div>like my keys, or my new winter gloves</div><div>love is so easy to lose</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8664340946047288794?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-4204672829583413022009-10-04T15:32:00.000-07:002009-10-04T15:40:02.035-07:00These floating things<br />caught in a spider-web flask<br /><br />these disappointments<br />caught between my finger nails<br /><br />they make up this hollow container<br />where I store the makings<br />of hope-sustained-longing<br /><br />beautiful, postcard images of you<br />as you look<br />from only far away<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(that's where I'll stay)</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-420467282958341302?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-37723476646888756342009-09-18T10:52:00.000-07:002009-09-18T10:53:25.382-07:00My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown<div>to you</div><div><br /></div><div>-Fiona Apple</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3772347664688875634?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-44114784784252718672009-09-12T22:02:00.000-07:002009-09-12T22:17:42.265-07:00The first impression<br />should be<br />well formatted<br />tight neck, pointy but masculine shoes<br />(as if such a thing exists)<br />(as if masculine exists)<br /><br />Everyone leans on their hands<br />in an intellectual way<br />they have practiced<br />while fucking in front of mirrors<br /><br />Everyone wants to look trendy<br />so the people with visors<br />on double-decker buses<br />can tell all their friends<br /><br />my hand, through your hand<br />to your chest, to your feet<br />are the only connection<br />to the inside, evidence of my existence<br /><br />reassuring, yes<br />pathetic, yes<br />romantic? In the 50's maybe<br /><br />I am too ambiguous to handle grunge<br />I crave the familiar self-loathing melodies<br />of anyone else but me<br /><br /><br />I am not unhappy<br />something worth documenting<br />An accomplishment in and of itself<br /><br />try not to move,<br />try not to do anything at all<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">m a k e i t</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"> l a s t</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-4411478478425271867?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-86651186196547434922009-04-01T21:08:00.000-07:002010-03-17T18:49:53.318-07:00what if I am<br />white<br />with tea stained skin?<br /><br />my father shook his head<br />after quizzing me<br />on our Culture's Ten Commandments<br /><br />ready to put me on the altar<br />for the Nation Imaginary<br /><br />I ran away<br />hid in a book<br />but my guilt and obligation<br />found me<br /><br />as it always does, as it<br />always will<br /><br />I am denied<br />and imposed on<br />in the same breath<br /><br />craved for my ugliness (beauty)<br />sought for my skill (mouldability)<br />applauded for my biculturalism (acting)<br /><br />success is white<br />so it is never mine<br />or<br />I contradict my existence<br /><br />sell-out<br />white-wash<br /><br />ashamed of what I dare to name<br />(a pain that's mine)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8665118619654743492?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-16614729423501608982009-03-24T14:58:00.000-07:002009-03-24T15:25:36.746-07:00All we do is<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">talk,</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >talk</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, talk</span><br />this gnawing scrap of metal lodged in the inner thing<br />of my throbbing brain<br /><br />when you get home from work<br /> I'll be distracting myself<br /> with more ways to not think of you<br /><br />when you get home from work<br /> I'll be stuffing my face<br /> promising tomorrow to show restraint<br /><br />when you get home from work<br /> I will hear your voice, over the phone<br /> <br /><span style="font-size:85%;">briefly</span> <br /> <br /> <span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">scratching</span><br /><br />the insides of my throat<br />before I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">moving, moving, moving</span><br />again,<br />losing my gravity to the wind<br />suffocated in clouds and<br />a pressure to be<br />more than I think I am<br />until my guilt-ridden skin<br />cements to my bones<br /><br />I should believe it<br /><br />but I've stayed here too long<br />and <span style="font-weight: bold;">my feet won't stick</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-1661472942350160898?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-10617629413561483972009-03-01T21:40:00.000-08:002009-03-01T21:42:27.082-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">What if I'm a mermaid in these jeans of hers <br />with her name still on it<br />but I don't care<br />'cause sometimes, I said sometimes<br />I hear my voice<br />and its been here<br />silent all these years<br /></span><br />-tori amos<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-1061762941356148397?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-88444671495866203612009-02-03T22:43:00.000-08:002009-02-03T22:45:56.126-08:00don't know who put me here, what purpose,<br />every night woken up with linen thin as paper I<br />last i remember smelling of factory soap<br />sometimes she visits me<br /><br />a young girl's hips, her bloody lips<br />i swear i'll taste them if i have to<br />asbestos eyes, her tired sighs<br />i swear, i'll cut them, if i have to<br />I said I'll hurt them (you) if I have to<br /><br /><br />so much noise so little meaning<br />her hands unrobe me while she's sleeping scheming, draining, dreaming<br />we can't escape this fence we place along our hands<br />shutup, suck on your plastic<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">when I grow up I think I'll be a doctor, or maybe an astronaut, or maybe like one of those people that studies volcanoes, yeah, and watches them explode<br />something that makes me really really tall, and makes people like me,<br />when I grow up I think I'll be something beautiful, something really beautiful, and tall. . . and beautiful</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8844467149586620361?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-75734883571448869092009-01-03T23:28:00.001-08:002009-01-03T23:28:34.907-08:00Words that rhyme<br />Can’t pierce your ears enough to get your attention<br />So I talk broken<br />In awkward pauses and disappointed sighs<br />To keep your hands away from your eyes<br />Long enough to hear you say<br />A well composed lie<br /><br />We don’t have to look at those faded stars<br />More faded than our aspirations<br />More distant than our desires<br />So well disciplined and groomed<br />Like an outdoor poodle<br /><br />Remnants of a holiday can’t be erased from my periphery<br />So I stare blankly ahead<br />Keeping my toes on the line<br />To keep me loyal to a well-rehearsed regimen<br />Just long enough to start again<br /><br />It could be a long gaze through rain-smeared windows<br />Or an attachment disorder to my guitar cable<br />But this fear and this disappointment will rise again<br />Deep in my chest, slowly swallowing me<br />Insulating me into a well-packaged souvenir<br />A bureaucratic waste disposal unit<br /><br />That we can be pleased to slide sideways<br />As you drag your hand down your nearly immaculate desk<br />To push the crumbs and clutter<br /><br />Some days,<br />I can climb into the tiniest paper cut<br />Just to feel closer to my insides<br /><br />Some days,<br />I can predict the future<br />Everything eventually<br /><br /><br />Becomes <br /><br /> broken<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7573488357144886909?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-6487398564489853192008-10-09T19:22:00.000-07:002008-10-09T19:31:22.397-07:00How will they judge our century? our generation?<br />Will they cry at all we took for granted?<br />Will they laugh at all we valued above the rest?<br />Will they shake their heads at our mistakes?<br />Or simply repeat our most religious sentiment:<br /><br />'that's just the way it is'<br /><br />I hope they do<br />I hope they are shocked by our inhumanity<br />appaled by our fascination with destruction<br />disgusted by our selfish pride<br />pity our self-induced stupour<br /><br />Progress will emerge<br />not from our reverence for our 'forefathers'<br />or our kneeling at the pews<br /><br />not from our mythical creations of battles<br />and obsession with sophisticated ways to hate<br /><br />The more they can see us for the brutes we are<br />the more hope I have in those that will come after<br />that they may say<br />We can do much, much better<br />we are, much, much better<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-648739856448985319?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-74947738070090421162008-09-07T15:03:00.001-07:002008-09-07T15:03:37.629-07:00Every cowardly chain that shackles my body<br />will melt at the optimism<br />shot through my eyes<br /><br />Every single layer of contradiction<br />like a practical joke<br />in my mind-set<br />will be corrected<br />by faith in the human hand and heart<br /><br />we will persevere, we will overcome<br />we will overshadow fear<br />until it transforms into beauty<br />begging for our approval<br />until it makes us laugh<br />and we build a friendship<br />with the part of us<br />we never wished to face<br /><br />for the enemy was in our minds<br />in our believing that we could not<br />when we always, always could<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7494773807009042116?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-34683813662772753822008-07-15T22:45:00.000-07:002008-07-15T22:59:59.424-07:00I thoroughly enjoy melancholy<br />I know it is the cliched <span style="font-style:italic;">artist</span> in me<br />but that's okay<br />perhaps its a cliche for a reason (which has coincidentally become a cliche as well)<br /><br />I have recently re-acquired a working album of Lauryn Hill's "Miseducation of. . . "<br />and it brings me back to a younger, probably generally sadder, me.<br /><br />Althought perhaps it came from a more self-absorbed place, it feels like I had a lot to be sad about then. I guess it could be considered 'normal' teenage stuff, but I think regardless of how many people went through a similar thing, it doesn't mean that we should be very nonchalant about it and just consider it something that is to be expected. I think a lot of the 'truths' people learn come from a real harm inflicted upon them, whether intentional or non-intentional. <br /><br />Take for example:<br /><br />that's just the way life is<br />nothing comes for free<br />the only person you can trust is yourself<br />if somebody does something for you, they want something for you<br />humans are innately selfish<br /><br />etcetera. . .<br /><br />My point is, is that I believe human consciousness is a collective effort. The way we treat people around us makes both their and our reality, and that is more powerful than we could ever imagine. When we take our reality for granted, we become stagnant and limit our possibilities.<br /><br />This feels like the equivalent of a christian's credo or something.<br /><br />I do believe it profoundly. I believe that's all it takes for it to be true (well, according to my philosophy. . . ). When was the last time you assumed the best of people when your 'instinct' was to believe their motives are questionable? When is the last time you gave a person the complete benefit of the doubt when they are in a poor condition, suffering or in a bad place?<br /><br />To me, that is the politics that will give this world a fighting chance. The rest is just bullshit.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3468381366277275382?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-56502329065185643602008-06-25T21:54:00.000-07:002008-06-25T22:15:44.904-07:00I fell asleep clasping<br />a tight container of compliments<br />collecting condensation<br />they stay on the pillow<br />with my head and neck<br />coating my insides<br /><br />I open my eyes<br />and the dawn shyly emerges<br />staining the cieling a golden transparent<br />breathing on to my skin and hair<br />even the mirror, beams in her attention<br />saluting the room with reflected light<br /><br />I turn to my side<br />to face your absence<br />placing my hand lightly <br />as to reach for the gap of your back<br />and between your fingers<br /><br />where is it that you linger now?<br />is it in the persistent throbbing of my head,<br />the stiffness of my fingers, the monotony of my heart beat,<br />the coldness of my back, the pins and needles <br />in the arches of my feet?<br /><br />No love, these only mark your absence.<br /><br />So where is it love, where is it that you linger?<br /><br />somewhere in between the pen and the paper<br />the dreaming and waking<br />in the way you prime my body<br />and collude with my eyes<br /><br /> to see beauty<br /><br /> and be grateful<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-5650232906518564360?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-13658980846365753012008-04-28T21:43:00.001-07:002008-04-28T21:44:20.508-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">watch the city star dust fade<br />what these hands cannot divide<br />the winters sleep away</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-1365898084636575301?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-31458618093605169092008-04-27T21:56:00.000-07:002008-04-27T22:20:49.708-07:00these slices of purpose<br />between our finger nails<br /><br />are gone before we can decode the messages<br />so all we have is grey<br /><br />and we wait in the dark, without debriefing<br />for the glaring grey that hangs like a shadow<br />on every door of the house<br /><br />as we puzzle at alternate spellings and car-pooling practices<br />as we skim through our address book and pull at our shirts<br />as we pose for job interviews and remember our photo ids<br /><br />we ignore the life that evaporates from our hands<br /><br />but if we breathe and stare at the sky<br />just enough to not be aware of our own bodies<br />that interrupt our presence in this world<br /><br />we may catch a glimmer of life<br />as it rejoins the sea of sky, the grey<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3145861809360516909?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-78982372740952561482008-03-16T13:25:00.001-07:002008-03-16T13:31:50.628-07:00Footsteps underneath my bed<br />I hold my breath<br />I check the driveway for a sign<br /><br />I count the layers that I orbit<br />being sure not to touch<br />your shoes on the ground<br />or your letters from your church<br /><br />Sorry and thank you<br />well rehearsed well before<br />in case I may collide<br />like a country mouse on the subway<br /><br />Whispered phone calls while you laugh<br />you're always laughing<br />and always stern and unhappy<br /><br />I heard you leave out the door<br />I bring my paper and my pens<br />I pour myself a glass<br />now I am home<br /><br />I play my music<br />phone at my side<br />dance in the kitchen<br />sing to myself<br /><br />I hear the rustling of keys<br />I inhale deeply<br />as my feet stick to the floor<br /><br />you are back<br />and I retreat<br />back under my blankets<br /><br />we are not at war<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7898237274095256148?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-30205088107720543912008-01-31T18:55:00.000-08:002008-01-31T19:10:01.993-08:00All I know<br />is that I draw myself a line and then <br />drag my toe a long it<br />like I'm cutting life from death<br /><br />All I know<br />is that I keep my fingers crossed<br />that something will go wrong<br />so that my worries will be my dreams again<br /><br />All I know<br />is that I've lost the meaning of choice<br />when I look at their shoes and their manicures<br />I think I'm already gone<br /><br />All I know<br />is that I'm living in between lives<br />station to station waiting for the phone call<br />waiting for the time between my classes<br />counting numbers just to keep my place<br /><br />They tell me how to place my bricks<br />where to put my feet<br />how to feel for my face<br />to know if I am smiling<br />until I don't want to use the terminology<br /><br />I just want to rhyme words nonsensically<br />to disrupt the logic of anti-logic deconstructed ideology<br /><br />The greatest resistance is to be child<br />and look at everyone wide-eyed<br />so that they have to explain themselves<br />and can't hide behind felt-tip pens and recipes<br /><br />I am out of time because I have made reservations for the rest of my life<br /><br />How did we forget each other?<br /><br />I tried to listen only to the voice inside my head<br />but it multiplied and divided into shards of glass<br />refractions of light<br />white noise and grey channels<br /><br />I miss the arguments the most<br />when you made me feel like being back in your arms was the victory<br /><br />Now I ride the bus, like a responsible adolescent<br />and live in brief moments when friends make me laugh<br /><br />but mostly I just live dumbfounded<br />trying to keep my mouth closed to hide my shock and horror<br />at forgetting everything but the <br />skeleton of who we were<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3020508810772054391?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-79833129398077103302007-11-16T01:43:00.000-08:002007-11-16T01:45:35.599-08:00Sleep seems like the worst submission<br />the thing I didn't know I signed for<br />the money I swore I put in my pocket that I'll never find again<br /><br />I pace my house like that girl I used to live with<br />that we would talk about over peanut butter and toast<br />in postman blue uniforms<br />when what we had most in common was what we needed to complain about<br /><br />Now I can't stretch myself far enough to make this house less empty<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7983312939807710330?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-87343743739453638702007-10-07T21:46:00.000-07:002007-10-20T14:08:17.474-07:00People like you don't apologize<br /><br />you actively choose to look distracted<br />to avoid the questioning eyes<br />that know you're wrong <br />and still wait patiently<br />like children<br /><br />People like you change the subject<br /><br />to stay entertained<br />Have diplomatic gestures<br />and dirty hands<br /><br />People like you Are <span style="font-style:italic;">so busy lately</span><br />and waste everyone's time with their problems smaller than the listeners<br /><br />People like you have contingency plans for intimacy<br />keep people that perform favours on speed dial<br />are productive and ambivalent like engines<br /><br />People like you consider themselves the standard<br />that their opinions are the measurement tape requirements<br />when no one is even growing in their direction<br /><br />People like you can run down a city<br />with the baggage they drag through homes and hands<br /><br />You know who you are<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8734374373945363870?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-46618653884387930532007-10-07T21:24:00.000-07:002007-10-07T21:25:25.992-07:00"Time can't paint the picture for you, dying leaves need time to fall"<br />-the acorn<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-4661865388438793053?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-86320896115501073162007-10-07T20:57:00.000-07:002007-10-07T21:23:36.998-07:00Sometimes I get in to this frame of mind<br />where possibility takes on weird shapes<br />and forms shadows of shadows<br />draping the walls of my perception<br /><br />Sometimes out of sleep and paralyzed in time<br />I find you in between layers<br />cushioned in the soft mass of my treasured memory<br /><br />Sometimes I can read between the lines of my tired face<br />And I can see you as you were<br /><br />I tell myself that was simply my imagination<br />that you never existed<br />Like a beautiful story, you helped me drift to sleep<br /><br />Hush now, off to sleep<br />Longing is a beautiful colour<br />it wraps around your hands and makes everything you reach for<br />glow like the horizon<br />burning like hot coals in the pupils of your eyes<br />that pull like a bottomless vaccum<br />and scrapes at your soul<br /><br />But that wasn't it at all was it?<br /><br />I guess I give my hands too much credit<br />(hideous creatures)<br />I could have sworn that you glowed in the dark<br /><br />sometimes<br />on a night like this<br /><br />On a night like this, I'm just looking for excuses<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8632089611550107316?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-72613341836398093432007-09-30T15:10:00.000-07:002007-09-30T15:33:56.239-07:00I've known for years now<br />long enough that I don't remember feeling another way,<br />That I can't cultivate beauty<br /><br />It crumbles in my hands like freshly formed sugar<br />and stains the counter<br /><br />It leaves strands behind in bathtubs and sinks<br />until I am disgusted by its memory<br /><br />It clings to the lines in my palms<br />persistent like people who know how to get their way<br /><br />The minute I say it, its beyond my control<br />to give it the meaning it was intended for<br />So I show you,and I'm at your mercy<br />So I trust you and I'm full of fear<br />Just when we thought we'd won<br />Just when we thought we'd won<br /><br />The thing that puzzles me is your apparent patience<br />your commitment to common ground, that it can be found<br />when we don't know what we're looking for<br />that you can figure me out<br />when I'm deforming and morphing out of the corners of my eyes<br /><br />See I've always known that you can't cultivate beauty<br />it dries with your tears and fades with the light<br /><br />It drowns with the dawn, collides with the sky<br />just when you've written it down <br />and copyrighted it<br /><br />just when you've written it down<br /><br />you are disgusted by its memory<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7261334183639809343?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-5357429004235886952007-09-19T20:01:00.000-07:002007-09-19T20:28:14.367-07:00Today I thought,<br /><br />Imagine if I grow blind<br />And even the palest blue<br />Is just an extinguished memory<br /><br />I suppose I thought of your eyes<br />And how they would inform your words<br />Your words as my instrument and my guide<br /><br />Your words as the only truth<br /><br /><br />Today I thought of being a lone<br /><br />Of feeling every sliver through my skin<br />And keeping my outbursts inward<br />So that strangers don’t stare at me<br /><br />Today I thought of integrity<br /><br />And mourned my ambition that keeps me dishonest<br />my silence that keeps me suspicious<br /> my ideas trapped in boxes and tight-fitting shoes<br /><br /><br />Today I was grateful<br /> For conversations with myself<br /> For loneliness<br /> For remembering my insignificance<br /> And deceiving myself just enough to dream<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-535742900423588695?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-35753967164120920672007-08-23T12:02:00.000-07:002007-08-23T12:15:05.400-07:00Today (going into tomorrow) is my last shift at KGH. Its pretty crazy. This summer went by so fast, too fast really to be able to enjoy it and make the best of it. Of course now, its cold and gross outside all the time, as if signaling that I have once again missed the opportunity to really explore and have fun with my summer.<br /><br />I'm actually irrationally nervous about my last shift. It just feels lately like every time I leave with the knowledge that I have not done something truly regrettable or negligent, I am indebted to the gods. I guess that is the nature of an understaffed, overworked hospital, especially when you're a new grad. Its sad to say and sounds even more horrifying when you're not a nurse, but its true. I've randomly thought about calling in sick and become delirious with excitement, but Julian, my moral anchor/restraint has made me feel guilty about even considering it.<br /><br />I brought my laptop to the goat with some intention to work on my story but I haven't been able to start. I have a familiar feeling that it is all in vain, and that it will never be good enough to really consider honest writing, let a lone a novel. It feels strange now, reading a published book and analyzing every sentence and comparing it to my own work in progress. Sometimes it feels super educational, one of the most enjoyable learning experiences I've had. Other times, it seems to serve to just remind me of how vacant and fragmented my own writing it. Its hard to decide what will be an 'artistic' decision/risk and what is simply poor or inadequate writing. You don't want your writing to be like anybody else's but you certainly don't want your writing to be inferior/inadequate when compared to the stuff out there, in meaning, intention, purpose, etc.<br /><br />12 hours from now I will be halfway through my last shift. 24 hours from now I may be fully rested from it and I can be sure to have accumulated the last bit of fuel for nursing nightmares. . . at least for a while.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3575396716412092067?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-41138526470718195832007-08-17T09:21:00.000-07:002007-08-17T09:41:59.715-07:00I LOVE the new Stars Album. Anothe great album. Aaah, its so satisfying to have great new music to listen to. Its a lot more versatile than their other albums. The other albums perhaps are more like 'concept' albums. . .very focused sounding. Lyrically, I still think that this album falls under that description, but musically, very variable. Its refreshing because no song sounds like a 'B' song, all the songs just distinct and interesting.<br /><br />So, I gave KGH the slip which felt pretty AMAZING. After all the horrible political stuff that has happened with my floor I do not feel indebted to them in the least. In fact, it feels kind of cathartic to be able to tell them I'm done with them. I do feel terrible for the nurses on the floor, especially the ones that have been supportive because the understaffing is just ridiculous. I did feel guilty, but I have come to the point of acknowledging that there is a shortage everywhere, and I cannot be held responsible for that if I want to pursue other avenues and career opportunities. I'm still considering trying to find a casual position at a hospital in London. We'll have to see how possible that is.<br /><br />What else to say? I'm so excited about starting my master's. Helene told me about a new research project they are in the process of getting funding for and it just sounds like phenomenal stuff, just the type of work I want to be doing so we'll have to see how that works out. <br /><br />Julian and I are going to Ottawa this weekend and staying with his old housemate and his girlfriend. Its kind of sweet because we will be able to save quite a bit of money by not staying in a hotel since money is actually somewhat concerning to me what with quitting my job and all. I should be okay since I get enough funding to pay my tuition and a bit left over for groceries and such.<br /><br />My parents are back from Guatemala. I called them yesterday and kept them up for about an hour talking to them. I felt pretty bad, I think they were really tired. I love my parents, they get me. I never thought I would be saying that at 16, but its true. A lot of things I see as my greatest strengths are because I extracted these qualities by my parent's example.<br /><br />Well, that's all. I have a meeting with the manager and educator on the floor tomorrow so wish me luck, it is always very intimidating and very demeaning. I keep imagining myself walking in with a business suit, a new haircut and high heels and then realizing that I will be wearing my scrubs, be wiping the sleep out of my eyes and have my hair up however is possible since I'll be working a full 12 hours. Oh well, there are other ways to convey confidence and to make a firm stance. Besides, they can't hurt me now. I'm past them.<br /><br />I'm going to get some clothes on and go enjoy the sun for once. I feel like some weird night creature that hides from the sun after my four shifts. Its nice to be on Kirk's rotation, even if it is only for 3 weeks. Everytime I see her I realize how much I've missed her. We are planning on going to see Amber and Kim the following weekend (that's right I'm going right back to ottawa haha). I better go, I'm going to try to catch Julian at his hair appointment, he is fixated on this specific one because they give a 'free face massage.' Personally, I wouldn't want some wierd guy touching my face, no matter how relaxing it is but I guess for some reason guys don't get the same discomfort with girls. Its the unshakeable women-mother complex I think.<br /><br />I'm out.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-4113852647071819583?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-12497683764133405022007-08-02T23:02:00.000-07:002007-08-02T23:34:49.549-07:00Hello world wide web<br /><br />There is only one month left of my summer. Due to my work schedule, I know in advance that I have exactly half a month to try to make my summer worth having and one month to make it out alive working at the hospital. It feels surreal to think that it is almost over. A part of it feels just like a deja-vu considering that I'm starting all over again, going back to school in September.<br /><br />Today was a pretty nice day. I went to the beach with Julian, Kirk and Rooke. It was a super hot day and the water was so warm. Kirk is a freakin' rock; we were battling with Julian and Rooke in the water (on each other's shoulders) and we won every time thanks to her freakishly steady legs. It was nice getting to see her and talk about nursing stuff with a person who is super level-headed and honest. I wish I saw her more often, it was nice to have her so close before when we lived together. Same with all my house mates really. I should really call Amber and Kim one of these days. Its so hard to keep in touch when people are not close by.<br /><br />Wednesday was Julian and my 2 year anniversary. It feels so much longer than that. . . not in a bad way, but it just doesn't seem to indicate the maturity and level of our relationship. I feel like I have known him all my life almost, its hard to explain.<br /><br />I've been writing a couple new songs lately. I don't know if anything will turn out to be something that I can really cherish but either way its nice to be working on some stuff that seems to have some potential. I know now that I'm staying with my new guitar. It was hard to get used to the sound at first because it is a lot warmer/lower than my other guitars, but now I think the change is good, inspiring different things in my songwriting and generally, just being a nice change.<br /><br />Finding housemates to live with has proved to be quite crazy. I've had quite a few responses and its hard to keep track and to decide what is best. I want to pick people who I can get a long with and lead somewhat compatible lifestyles but it also seems unrealistic to try to attempt to do this with the limited information that I have. Tomorrow I will have to work out more of this.<br /><br />I guess that's enough for now. Its quite late, I should let Julian get to bed.<br /><br />I feel pretty excited and weathered and changed. I have a good feeling about what's to come, I just have to show endurance for the time being.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-1249768376413340502?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-66281044204904232842007-07-18T10:17:00.000-07:002007-07-18T10:26:29.376-07:00Well. . . I'm doing the taboo and impractical. I am writing on the hospital computer during my break. I know, that's bad. I guess its pretty sad that right now I would rather write something than socialize with my co-workers but sometimes I want my breaks to be about me forgetting I am at work, not mulling it over second by second.<br /><br />Do you ever get random unfinished sentences in your head? One I always get (assuming this is normal. . . ) is "One day when I grow up. . . " I don't know why. Maybe just because as a child you get asked a million times, so my brain, now deprived of the question, has had time to gather information and practice charm to give the perfect answer. Alas, the correct trigger is never given and I am stuck writing on my blog on my lunch break at work. Sometimes when I'm feeling artistic I tell myself that it is the repressed youth in me reminding me that I used to have idealistic dreams about the way I would change the world and have failed to deliver. <br /><br />We'll see though. I still have time (or so it appears).<br /><br />I have one more day of work in this string of 12 hour shifts before I am off for a couple of days. My parents were going to visit this weekend before they go away to Guatemala to see relatives. It will be nice to see them. If Julian isn't around then it will probably feel a little less lonely.<br /><br />Maybe I should have a rule about when I can write on this thing: a prerequisite of at least 2 interesting things. Maybe I would never write though.<br /><br />Well that's it for now. I've become a little more self-conscious about writing my blog at the staff hospital.<br /><br />That's all.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-6628104420490423284?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-90520377520460067212007-07-14T00:19:00.000-07:002007-07-14T00:33:17.999-07:00So I googled beautiful conscience. . . you know because I wanted to see what would turn up. . . and yeah, I'm a little crazy about wishing my blog will one day be noticed by google. Turns out the religious community were already quite familiar with this phrase that I thought I had coined. . . creepy. I do not wish to think like non-secular folk (I know, I'm a closed-minded simpleton). In my defense, I consider it more of an affront on my identity than an attack on institutionalized religion.<br />Although institutionalized religion is a different story. . . <br /><br />Both "city of stars" and "beautiful conscience" are parts of poetry that I have written on www.clicktrackmusic.com. They mean to me what they are supposed to mean in the context of those two poems and I have picked them for that reason. I felt a need to clarify because it is one of those things that I just randomly worry about a long with other minute things like: have I been brushing my teeth enough? why don't these pants fit anymore? Am I _really_ getting another stye? Is everyone staring at me? Am I crazy and I just don't know it? Am I becoming more like my mother?(the list goes on and on). Anyway, the point is, it includes, does the name of my website or web address sound pretentious? So, for the record, by all means take issue with these phrases due to 'artistic differences' but not because you conceive that I am a very righteous-feeling individual.<br /><br />I am tempted to write "don't hate the player hate the game." _But_ I would never be that lame. Never.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-9052037752046006721?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-84511521134403667732007-07-11T17:20:00.000-07:002007-07-11T17:24:08.253-07:00Close me up<br />Swallow what I’ve spoken<br />I swear, I’ll deny it<br />So just ignore your need to be the town cryer<br /><br />Don’t give me those eyes<br />When you know I’ve done something wrong<br />But you’re good enough to forgive me<br /><br />Last night we were working in a coal mine<br />And telling each other we were making love<br />These are the things that stay and define<br />My eyes<br />Your ears<br /><br />I should have shaved my arms<br />You should have not got caught<br />I should have asked more questions<br /><br />These are the little ways that you mend a worn-down sweater<br />That you wear with the mildest chill<br />Because it smells of your favourite spring<br /><br />These are the little ways that I travel through your circulation<br />And you connect my bones like dots<br />The thunder and lightning<br />The hair and the skin<br />are the measurements of time and space <br />that I store in the cellar of your eyes<br /><br />So all I have to do to remember<br /> is look<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8451152113440366773?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-38742498389465894592007-07-11T16:31:00.000-07:002007-07-11T17:19:37.820-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">-the acorn</span><br /><br />One more shift to fill for this week. It feels quite short considering my fast exit today. I left because of what I imagine is menstrual pain without the menstruation (I know, everyone's favourite subject). <br /><br />I felt like such a stupid child when I was telling the educator. I said "I'm not feeling very well right now," as I pinched my eye trying to not release the slowly pooling tear. Today was just so bad though. It came completely out of nowhere. One second I was fine the next I was keeled over from the sharp stabbing feeling in my lower abdomen. I don't know if maybe I'm also getting sick but I was dry heaving, having the most overactive bowels and on top of that having chills and heat flashes. I have a problem that I never feel like people believe me about stuff like this. I want to be able to present people with evidence of my illness. Even to me though it just seems unbelievable to think that someone can be in so much pain because of something so 'normal' and frequent as your period. I was telling Julian that I want some proof that I don't have a tumour, or a cyst or something causing that pain. If it is simply menstrual pain I'll deal with that but I don't really feel like I have been giving any reassurance that there are not other causes (as paranoid as that may sound). It seems rather odd that something can be considered non-pathological when it is this debilitating.<br /><br />I am getting paid this week which should be quite a change from last week where I basically just paid off my credit card and paid Julian back for a bunch of trip stuff. I'm going to try really hard to save the majority of it. If Julian and I end up going to England it would be nice to just coast off my summer earnings for a change.<br /><br />I guess I don't have anything very interesting to say on this thing. <br /><br />I have this new fixation with researching all Canadian bands to maximize the chance of being able to see a band I really like live. I figure, there are other people in different countries who would probably kill to see some Canadian group or artist but maybe because of where they live, there is a very slim chance that this may happen. I want to take advantage of these opportunities. Besides, I have a lot of faith in Canadian music. I feel like Canada has a lot of ignored (or at least under-acknowledged) musical brilliance. So far I haven't even made it past the A's. I am at The Acorn, a band I know that I like, just not to what extent at this point.<br /><br />Its so gratifying to make decisions in which the process is almost as enjoyable as the result. Maybe that is why people become so obsessed with classifications. Its like an organized sport. It gives them an excuse to dedicate so much time and importance to something that is nothing more than a harmless indulgence. Best of all, they can validate their decisions as works of art that parallel the art that they love to admire.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3874249838946589459?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-39166462103627160392007-05-29T20:17:00.000-07:002007-05-29T20:57:46.038-07:00Are you really going to help me lady? Or, are you just going to do your job? Because they really aren't interchangeable.<br /><br />Hello internet-black hole<br /><br />Back at the homestead with hours to kill (and study).<br /><br />What is a fancy, sophisticated way of saying restless? That's what I am right now. As I walked home tonight (its 11 pm) I looked at all the stores that are closed (mostly which I never feel any urge to go into anyway) and took it quite personally.<br /><br />Why is it that things never fit like they're supposed to. You feel like staying up late when you're lonely (and nothing is open). You're tired when you should be most excited. You have your most creative spurts when you are trying your hardest to stay focused on the task at hand. You miss people only when you can't be near them. <br /><br />I had one of those super annoying eavesdropping study sessions where I kept oscillating between being super annoyed and wanting to join the conversation of the group sitting beside me. I think I felt mostly annoyed because I was jealous.<br /><br />They were all talking about the hardships of being teachers (I think they are all new-grads) and really going to town with comments like "Any other profession. . . " or ". . . just because they(we) are teachers. . ." All things which I imagine to be pretty common place when you put a couple of proud people with common professions in the room together. I'm sure this at least partially egotism but in my head I was thinking:<br />"you THINK that's difficult!!? Have you ever tried nursing???"<br />I'm aware of how lame I sound. Both my mother and father are teachers and I am aware of the difficulties. For example:<br />-you always have to take work home with you<br />-deal with overbearing parents (not to mention ABUSIVE parents)<br />-the children can become pretty much YOUR children<br />-the older ones may hate you or at least a lot of them are rude to you<br />(etc.)<br /><br />But these girls were talking about how you have this 'image thing' as a teacher, and you can't party at the bars with your underage students or make-out with randoms at that bar. . . blah blah blah.<br /><br />Here are some differences between nursing and teaching: <br />-A completely unintended mistake does not lead to immediate removal of your license.<br />-You don't work crazy shift work<br />-Your co-workers (ie some doctors) don't think you're their footstools and in many places have complete reign to treat you like that<br />-you are not under-appreciated, over-worked, hit on and hit, have your back screwed as a result of daily requirements, and held equally responsible for choices you are not legally allowed to make (ie med. errors) and on top of that asked if all you're going to be is<br />"just a nurse"<br /><br />Wow, what a sob story that was. I apologize. There is really no point to compare professions like that. I just had to unwind. I really respect and value every profession that serves people. My definition of equality does not include lowering the standards of treatment for certain people so that we all feel less jealous. I really think that differences though can really highlight a need for improvements in the way we value and treat certain workers.<br /><br />Enough already.<br /><br />I need GOOD MUSIC. itunes shuffle is not pulling through for me now.<br /><br />Ugh, what a boring/complaint like blog. It makes me feel very bureaucratic.<br /><br />BLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH<br /><br />I wish I was in trouble or scared or nervous. <br /><br />Anything but office-like. . . like I'm waiting in an office to talk to myself and just fill out some personal information so I can sign for a thing that I don't want but I have to have before I can get something for a thing I have to do to be a proper functioning adult.<br /><br />Story of my life. I feel like I have been going through a mid-life crisis for about a year now. Is that possible? Do I have to be a certain age. Do I not fit the requirements. . . ?? THAT would just be typical.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3916646210362716039?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-84262193196893278372007-05-24T21:13:00.000-07:002007-05-25T09:32:12.273-07:00I feel sweaty and mildly energized, nervous and excited, hopeful and nostalgic for the recent present (like I can taste it in my mouth).<br />Basically, it feels like a summer night. Full of promise and prodigal-son certainty that leaves with its arrival.<br /><br />What to say? My graduation is tomorrow. . . I'm not going except for this nursing-specific ceremony that involves me buying a useless pin that I'm giving in to. I had a good night with Liz, she's always good to unwind with. . . you never get that feeling like you're 'taking it too far.' It never feels like you have to watch what you say, a feeling you get with too many people. She said she wanted to meet my parents which I agree would be a hilarious thing. Its always such an interesting experiment to see how my parents will cope with hanging out with my friends. I'd say some of my favourites include: <br /><br />1. Kelly because I feel like her and my dad have like a spiritual connection or something. If you saw them both dancing on our living room floor you would know what I mean. Also, because my mom and her mom are crazy in exactly the same way so she takes it all in stride (then again, Kelly takes everything in stride).<br />2. Jen because my parents are pretty much desensitized to her and treat her more like an adopted daughter than a friend what with all the feeding and in the past, rides to all our highschool social events. <br />3. Bamford because she is so bloody awkward and awed by the most arbitrary things that she fits right into my mom's maladaptive socializing. Bamford kind of reminds me of my mom because she has like a million -track mind. She interrupts her own thoughts about 3x a sentence.<br /><br />Natalie and Luisa are probably the most suave, Natalie with her overpowering politeness and Luisa by playing the Spanish card. Who else? Kate has spent so much time with my family that my parents almost ignore her if they've seen her a lot. If they haven't seen her a long time they practically beam with joy, same with Morgan and Ange who feel like my imaginary friends since I hardly ever get to see them.<br /><br />The last thing I want to do right now is study. I'm going to stay up super late though and hopefully get more in. Thats the plan anyway.<br /><br />I feel too dependent on Julian lately, not because of anything that happens or anything I do just because now that I live with him in such a more long-term situation it feels like my brain is always working to know a) when he's coming home b)where he is c)how much time we're going to get together. It feels kind of pathetic. I think as long as I try to stay in the loop with all my friends this summer it will be alright. There are so many awesome people here this summer and I want to catch up with all of them. I'm really looking forward to work so that I can enjoy the 5 days off in between that much more. Ah, the new and improved Kingston summer, the hours of music, writing, running, jumping in the lake without the shitty job, getting in an accident, feeling emo. about a tentative relationship and having to hang out with sketchy military guys (its a long story. . . needless to say, it was never my decision).<br /><br />Why do I feel like people don't believe me? Honest, its Bamford's fault.<br /><br />Alright, time to study/play the piano, it depends which one wins. . . Dammit, I already know how this ends. . .<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-8426219319689327837?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-76475997887293789362007-05-22T11:06:00.000-07:002007-05-22T11:36:00.531-07:00Little kids reduce me to unintelligible mush. Just looking at their little tiny faces and sticky hands reaching for books and cakes and their long-pronounced pleases, always wanting encores of the most simplest things. They are happy and so full of potential. They fit in adorable places and squirm like strobe-light jelly fish.<br /><br />Am I creeping you out yet? <br />I think its just premature maternal stirrings. . . a symptom of having a mother like the one I have. . . and maybe influenced by nursing care theory that makes you obsess about anything related to being human.<br /><br />Today I cut myself off of studying anymore psych. nursing. The MC questions were really leaking into every crevace of my brain, fueling my detailed introspections. Anyway, I'm finished the questions and I really need to start working on other areas (for ie, areas that I know I am much more ignorant about *shudder*).<br /><br />The worst thing that could happen:<br />failing my nursing exam = no job, no money, no grad school <br />This is the most boring topic to write about and is making my chances of having any readers even more impossible than before.<br /><br />I really don't have much else to discuss. . . I'll list things in desperation.<br />-I bought an 'organic' 'fair trade' jacket, I feel pretty sheepish now but atleast I got the tax off. . . not that you can tell by the amount I payed for it<br />-I added up some numbers and realized that I owe Julian A LOT of money<br />-My first soccer game is this Monday! I'm pretty excited. It seems like a century ago since I played. . . hopefully it won't be that noticeable<br />-I'm running again. It feels good, so far, I have been overdressed everytime. Maybe I should get a pair of those tear-away pants that were trendy for like a week. . . <br /><br />Alright, enough already.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7647599788729378936?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-36763465369189644332007-05-19T09:42:00.000-07:002007-05-19T09:58:40.979-07:00I'm still in Markham right now since my parents really really really want me to see a Guatemalan marimba band play in Kitchener. So, in their craziness, they have agreed to pick us up here, drive to kitchener and then drive us home to Kingston all on the same night. My mother informed me that 'people kind of dress up for this thing.' She seriously talks to me like I walk around trying to convince people that I am a scarecrow through my clothes selection.<br /><br />Anyway, I really want to get home for all the good things but it is important to not get excited about everything so that I can study and pass my RN test. I think if I don't pass I will just stop blogging as I do not want any trace or record of my failing to get my nursing license after all this rambling and preparing.<br /><br />I was thinking today half in sleep that I want to start keeping copies of my favourite tabs/tabs that I can play. Of course right now that list would probably be about 3 songs but I figure if I keep them close to my guitar I can actually really learn them. Also, my ambition to study piano more formally has faded since I met a potential piano teacher who just really got under my skin. I asked him if he'd ever heard Ben Folds and he said he was 'more of a classical guy.'I won't elaborate any further. Needless to say, he was not my cup of tea.<br /><br />I think I'll shop around though and see if I can find a piano teacher that might suit my learning needs a bit more. Or, maybe I'll just sight read a bit more and convince myself that I am learning enough.<br /><br />I want to go home. I can't handle being here for very long. It makes me very uptight. I find that people's families have such an intricate, regulated way of relating to one another that they are so accustomed to that they don't even realize they are doing anything at all. I, however, as an observer, and hesitant participant, am very very aware. I enjoy my family's craziness because I feel we are all so obnoxious, loud, emotional and sporatic at times that anything goes really. I mean that. I know that's just a thing that everyone says, 'anything goes,' which actually means, there are a select number of things that won't surprise us or we won't expect. Aah, I change my mind, I'm sure you can't really mean more than that. I am a liar and a hypocrite. <br /><br />Alright, I guess I should get back to the annoying preparations involved in moving a lot of your things from one place to another.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3676346536918964433?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-60187130316962804772007-05-18T10:45:00.000-07:002007-05-18T11:07:36.166-07:00I guess I should be happy that there is a direct correlation with the absence of posts and my vacation. However, the whole trip now already feels like a blur so I have no hope of really recapturing it with any authenticity.<br /><br />First, I met Julian in San Francisco which was easier than I expected since he met me at the airport without any warning like a well groomed gentleman. This was both a blessing and a curse as my cycle of incompetence with public transportation remains. I know I would have figured it out, really, I'm not that pathetic. Its just that I really have the ability to build up such anxiety over the logistics of transportation. That's how I know that I am old already, and nobody can convince me otherwise.<br /><br />So anyway, we stayed right at the entrance to Chinatown. To me, Chinatown was just a very elaborate touristic gimmick. I was never really convinced that anybody lived there or considered that home. Everything just seemed like an amusement park with their squished penny stands, red lanterns and jade everything. I think both Julian and I felt a little sheepish at not spending more time getting to know Chinatown in Toronto which is actually populated with citizens, not just merchants.<br /><br />Another eerie thing about San Francisco is that you really feel the direct effect of US marketing in everything you do. I mean, you look at the golden gate bridge, or just a side street near the Ocean and you have memories of some movie or show you watched. Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to be so cynical, I'm really glad that I got to see it all. Still though, at the back of my mind I still had this feeling, when I did something that my brain already had documented, thanks to the proliferation of US culture,like, is this really all there is? Is this what all the fuss was about?<br /><br />The people we met in San Francisco were all quite friendly and best of all I got to meet some of my family that I had yet to meet. I have an Aunt and Uncle who live in San Fran with their three adorable little kids. We were warned that they were pretty feisty but they seemed to take well to us. I was especially surprised at their attention span while Julian gave them a mini-presentation on his laptops filled with 'did you know?' and 'do you know what that is?' questions. My Uncle is a singer and he plays in a Salsa band a couple of times a week. Julian and I got to see them perform twice. It was really great. Its nice to see one of the musical people in my family actually doing something with it.<br /><br />Alright, I don't have the patience to write about Vancouver now so I'll save that for another day. I'm wondering if I should pictures on this thing too. . . Hmmmmm. It looks like I'm not going to get back in Kingston until Saturday.<br /><br />Once I get back, my life is going to be studying and eating .. . hopefully with some physical activity. Hopefully.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-6018713031696280477?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-13712350875655109522007-05-02T06:46:00.000-07:002007-05-02T06:47:36.361-07:00"I'm addicted to words and they're useless"<br /> -motion city soundtrack<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-1371235087565510952?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-71038952471553483542007-05-01T23:26:00.000-07:002007-05-01T23:52:06.494-07:00[Drum roll please] Tonight I will be wearing my retainers! I know. . . exciting breakthrough news. I feel my teeth have shifted beyond repair though because their mutated form fits easily into the metal/plastic mould and they are definitely anything but straight. I think that my brother and mother have a secret conspiracy to improve my appearance because when I came home to London about a week ago the first thing my brother asked me is if I had been punched in the face. He pointed at his bottom teeth and kept pestering me by asking: "what happened?!" Him and my mother also frequently comment on my girth/waist status which can fluctuate from the positive or negative (their definition).<br /><br />Tonight was a good night. I saw a movie with friends and actually managed to study. I totally credit caffeine for my productivity. I love the caffeine buzz. . . it makes me feel hypersensitive/vigilant to my own thoughts and ideas and really does allow me to feel like everything I am doing is that much more interesting. It was almost too much so during the movie trailers which can be quite intense at times. I got suckered into getting excited about a video game which I thought I was movie. I really dislike video games (in general. . . <span style="font-style:italic;">someone</span> has slightly convinced me not to hate them) so you can guess my disappointment.<br /><br />The movie seemed like a poor attempt to convey the insight of the novel it was based on. That said, I haven't read the book. I'll leave it at that. . . I'd rather write about my retainers than my take on a movie.<br /><br />Apparently I have nothing to say. I felt filled with thoughts to convey to you imaginary readers but now my brain is vacant. <br /><br />2 things I have been debating:<br />1. Posting my 'work in progress' (supposed to be novel) here so that I can work on it wherever I have internet access.<br />2. Working out lyrics/drafts here<br /><br />Okay, 3, I lie: also putting some of my poetry on here. It seems like posting poetry especially, would interfere with the writing process. However, it might give me a necessary incentive. . . and just a change of scenery for writing because I really have been at a lull lately. Then again,<br /><br />STUDYING. <br /><br />I wish somebody else was freaking out about this. Maybe its time to contact bamford. Yet perhaps it is not. It depends how freaked out I am willing to be.<br /><br />Another thought: caffeine is only fun because I am not addicted to it. Sadly, I will always vow to take it easy on the caffeine mostly so that I can treasure it when I do give in to it.<br /><br />Also: 3 more sleeps until San fran. Julian is uncomfortable about being white (ie priveledged) b/c of the blatant systemic racism he sees in San Jose. That made me feel nice. . . does that make me a sadist? Its weird, whenever I get that kind of gratifying, 'yes, he gets it' or 'he understands' its usually in that type of context. I guess the world is that messed up that we have to get some type of satisfaction or feeling of 'knowing' through guilt or sadness.<br /><br />Knowledge and wisdom can be uplifting though. I guess that comes from taking that indignation, mourning or whatever you want to call it and transforming it into something you do because you feel.<br /><br />I feel really lame right now. . . lame and hopeful that tomorrow when I reread this it will sound closer to impressive and farther from tired.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7103895247155348354?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-283670438837438202007-04-30T22:12:00.000-07:002007-04-30T22:37:03.897-07:00I feel like the blandest person. I have tried to be disciplined with my studying but it has just forced me to find such mild (yet unsatisfying) entertainment with any distraction. I have played with my hair, while staring at myself in the mirror like I'm going through puberty again.<br /><br />Of course now more than ever I want to write for real. . . not this blogging/journaling business. . .but really write. . . I hope once I'm working I won't be so worn out from shift work and can keep some potential creativity. I'm at my parent's house now. I like calling it that, as opposed to my London home or just home. It makes me feel like I'm going somewhere in life and I won't be getting woken up by my mom in the room beside the one I am sleeping in now 10 years from now.<br /><br />I was in denial about financial things. I was sure that I hadn't been overly-indulgent with money but apparently I really was. It really is all my fault. I just love food and bubble tea. Seriously, other than train tickets and a car repair I payed for the rents. . . there have been no bigger purchases than the enjoyment of food. Perhaps this will be the summer of smart spending. . . and consequently, healthier eating. . . although eating out as a vegan doesn't usually result in very unhealthy choices. Unless you are in one of those awkward situations where somebody else picks the restaurant and you try to look normal by ordering fries and a drink. Oh the social awkwardness of the vegan.<br /><br />The worst part about the restaurant situation is when people get this glazed look on their face to hide their internalized accusations which are something like 'easy, high maintenance. . . ' when you ask about the dairy, and the egg, and the fish, and the butter. . . One day I will be a better vegan and not trust waiters/waitresses so much and really research these things. Can they really lie though? With all the allergies around you think they wouldn't risk it.<br /><br />I have just read a bit of psych. nursing readings. I have this obsession with pairing off pretty much every condition with a person I know. Well, first I try to see if there is any way I can convince myself that it is an ailment I am suffering from, then the boyfriend and parents, then the friends, then the acquaintances, then friends of friends. . . then imaginary people I believe exist. (It actually still continues from there). It give me some type of morbid satisfaction to fit my loved ones in some diagnostic/medical category. <br /><br />Well, I have wasted enough time for tonight. . . I am dreading the run I told myself I would go on tomorrow. I felt like a sack of potatoes running today, it felt like if I could just get enough mommentum and roll I could have gone faster than running. You know what can really drive you crazy? Is thinking about how much you bounce while you run. If you just fix your eyes on something up ahead or to your sides. . .and just keep running you can really feel your head bobbing like a ridiculous puppet. This must be a sign of how much intensity I have lost. My highschool cross country coach would be disgusted.<br /><br />I asked a question in my post so I guess this is intended for somebody else. . . or I could always convince myself it is for my future self. . . just like kids who say they 'just do it for fun' because they're afraid someone will point out all of their weaknesses.<br /><br />I'm out.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-28367043883743820?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-51216661971866003312007-04-29T17:31:00.000-07:002007-04-29T17:40:20.980-07:00So I will be leaving to San Francisco in a couple of days and then to BC before I start working at Kingston General. Its crazy to think that I'm doing this (as cliched as it sounds). I jut feel tricked into this whole being an adult thing. A part of me keeps telling me, 'you are just a kid,' it feels like this is some kind of joke.<br /><br />I guess there is no reason to have a mid-life crisis yet though, considering I'll be going back to school in September (yay, western!). Well. . . the Western thing isn't that exciting, but my supervisor is amazing and the people I have met at the research centre from working there are really great. I'm also excited to get something out of my education that I never thought was possible before. I really don't have a one-track mind and I feel like research will eventually give me the opportunity to expand on these crazy jumbled thoughts and questions instead of gathering them up, pushing them to the corner of my brain and trying to ignore them while I try to LEARN (the oldschool way. . . which actually for the most part, especially in health sciences, is the way of doing things)<br /><br />I feel that whenever I finally am able to write an entry on this thing it is either out of pathetic loneliness or boredom, or a combination of the two. Today however, its just pure old-fashioned, healthy procrastination. (I'm studying for my RN exam). I think today I kind of also convinced myself that I can use this as a substitute to my journal. . . I really can't write with a pen to keep up with my thoughts, and there's always a good chance that I might lose this stuff anyway.<br /><br />Well that's it for now I think. . . Wow, is this twice in a month? That's pretty incredible. . . How funny to think that noone might ever read this. . . well I guess I will make Julian read this. . . man I need more of a filter for this type of writing.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-5121666197186600331?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-36513543976497230302007-03-17T21:04:00.000-07:002007-03-17T21:48:27.283-07:00So I'm back in Kingston after being in Fort Albany for 8 weeks give or take.<br /><br />I feel like the survivor of an accident. I go for hours fine and then I just start to cry. I think its out of guilt and some of it is the 'noone understands me' syndrome. More than anything though I feel aged. I feel like I have experienced and know things that I definitely didn't expect to have at this point.<br /><br />So I have moved back into the bf's house for an indefinite amount of time. . . depending on how the summer goes and the answers I get back from the schools I applied to. <br /><br />I have yet to hang out with any of my friends in Kingston. I just feel exhausted and overwhelmed by all the things around me that I have been completely deprived of for two months. <br /><br />I have one more week of school and then I'm an official candidate to be a full-fledged registered nurse (still have to write the test of course).<br /><br />Julian is jamming with his band and I'm sitting on his bed trying to rid myself of jealousy and trying not to relate it to the sour end with my band in first year. Something about being in a band seems to be innately masculine to people.<br /><br />Its like if a girl in a band she has very limited identity choices and even her presence transforms the band into something very easily undesirable. And of course if she is 'one of the guys' then she is trying too hard, and if she's not. . . that is also a problem.<br /><br />A lot of people who know me I'm sure know about my issue with 'one of the guys' girls. Its a terrible trap because no matter how much you can bond and get a long and identify with a group of men there always comes a point where somebody or something has to remind you and put you in your place and say, "but hey, remember you are not one of us." And of course there is the issue of why you should have to prove that you are like somebody to be equal to someone. . . a part of this drive to be one of them seems to come from a belief of one's femininity as being something that must be altered if not eliminated.<br /><br />I grew up with two older brothers and my male cousin so I guess you could argue that the above paragraph is partially my own personal baggage.<br /><br />Now there is another issue for tonight. I have some actions I have not wanted to decide on. I could go listen to my boyfriend's band and most likely feel very uncomfortable but probably enjoy the music. I also have wanted to play my piano and guitar that I left behind but I'm afraid it would feel too much like compensation. I also could work on my writing or watch some downloaded heroes I've missed. . . which of course both seem avoidant. I have lost my ability to see my actions in isolation. Can you tell I have spent too much time by myself? <br /><br />I'm going to over-analyze myself into a web.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-3651354397649723030?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9151814712145464862.post-74032671585972937032007-01-29T19:43:00.000-08:002007-01-29T19:44:34.456-08:00"We are all ashamed of our vanity, as we should be."<br />-Owen<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9151814712145464862-7403267158597293703?l=beautifulconscience.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Susana C.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08667348555923402059noreply@blogger.com0