WATCH THE COLORS!!

(god, i feel really sick to mi estomiga ahora...las drogas? probablemente....ay dios mio. mierde. mi madre y su novio son un poco rudiosamente. mi espanol es muy, muy feo, no?)


and now, a very on-the-spot essay.

(i just thought of something, since i keep changing colors on here.)
i had one of those 4-color pens in junior high, with the neon colors. one day i took notes in social studies class using a different neon color for each sentence. our teacher graded our notebooks every week, and in mine he wrote, "WATCH THE COLORS!!" in the margin for that day.

speaking of taking notes...i remember experimenting with different handwriting. is this normal? how does one settle upon a style of handwriting? is it convenience, elegance, purposeful obfuscation??

in 4th grade, i copied jenny o.'s cursive, which was very cute, round, and bubbly. she (and i) dotted the "i's" with circles, and later, hearts (i think heidi started this trend.) the heart trend ended, however, when our teacher complained and banned this practice.
in that social studies class, there was actually a girl named "january" (she kinda had a personality like january too). she had this flat, sterile printing that i adored. i went through a period of trying to write like a boy. i had all kinds of pens-- ball-points, felt-tips, leaky drippy ones that had exploded in my backpack, pencils that smeared, pencils that scared me when they broke.

my journals throughout the years exemplified my evolution of penmanship (or lack thereof). by my senior year i had quit using cursive all together, and had a skinny, Denealian-esque print with loopy "y's" and shit.

when i was in the hospital once, i had trouble holding a pencil or a crayon. that kinda shot everything to shit for a while.

it came back though, and good. my handwriting was impeccable. people were amazed, jealous of my notes. i used black roller-ball to accentuate the strokes. my letters were dazzling with a regal font on cool stationary. job applications, flawless. i would write just to see them, the letters like little soldiers, like a fashion show, a parade of gorgeous socialites. i looked down on other people's stout, 6th grade scrawl. i sneered at my boyfriend's chicken scratch. i practiced my signature, practiced doing all styles of capital J's, included the L because it was so pretty and so much fun to make.

the only time i was ever jealous of someone else's handwriting after that was this girl in my professional block at State. pam had a gorgeous, boyish haircut with perfectly straight, wispy auburn hair (a better example of auburn than mine). pam was thin and birdlike with a nefertiti-neck, and had freckles, a dog and a boyfriend. her questions during discussions were always so...so much like she really cared about defining "art" (rather than avoiding that whole can of worms altogether and zoning out, like me). pam laughed a lot, got along really well with all the professors. dressed to kill, cardigan sweaters draped loosely about her flat, unencumbering, delicate chest.

i saw her at graduation. i think she gave me a hug. once my mom saw this she immediately grabbed her camera to prove that i had at least one friendship in my graduating class, in the whole 38,000 members of the student body. seeing me next to pam in the picture made me want to cry. we're both wearing blue robes and those flat stupid hats. i look like i'm at a costume party but she looks like a brochure for the Arts & Architecture department. her neck is so painfully long and thin, and you can see part of her trapezius muscles leading to her tiny shoulders. she's only got one chin, and it's pointy and adorable. this is one of the greatest days of her life. i'm only showing up because it's one of the greatest days of my mom's life.

there had been a party for all of us in that small class, right after the semester ended. only 2 didn't show-- my good friend mar and the girl who coverered herself with vanilla frosting and cotton balls for her final project. everybody was just kinda hanging out and drinking, and the winsome fellow who threw the party made a point to come up and praise my work. i was floored, but only until he started appearing with this anorexic-looking dance-team sorority cheerleading gymnast on his arm. it got dark. someone broke out the pot and after my head started its connundrums i went outside for air.

someone came up behind me. it was her. she said "i really liked your performances, jamie. you seem so calm and so...confident."

it was a weird choice of words. how could she say this? she had to know! how could she admire my sloppy rantings? she created laser-precision graphic displays; i shoved ice cubes in my panties and stuffed tampons in my mouth. i dressed in hospital gowns and threw spoiled ground beef at a picture of my scarred belly.

she had to know.

"no," i said slyly, jovially, slick as a goddamn poet. "that's what's so funny! it's a total illusion. i have absolutely no self confidence whatsoever. in fact, i can't stand myself. hate myself, really..."

somewhere between the time she pivoted to go back into the party and the time i realized she had gone, somewhere in there i knew she would never be my best friend.

i went back in myself, eventually...someone had put on paul simon and "diamonds on the soles of her shoes" was playing. people were dancing; pam and her boyfriend, she looked so incredibly innocent with joy, all lit up with the beat and the booze.

dispersement happened. everyone was going different directions. i realized that i couldn't stay in the chair where i was b/c the handsome fellow and his acrobatic bone goddess were going to have sex in this room. someone said my name and i got up and started home. i think i shook everybody's hand except the cheerleader's. or maybe i hugged people. i can't remember. i can picture going down the hill from town and up the other hill toward campus, toward my coveted single room in West.

i don't know how to end this. i obviously never saw pam again. she probably married that boyfriend and his dog too. or she's gay now. she probably dresses very cutting-edge and tailored but just a little bohemian, and she lives with her entourage in manhattan.

or oregon. gardening. bandanna around her forehead. faded, sexy, boyish, baggy, overalls. breeding dogs. breeding horses. breeding perfect humans. breeding her dancing, forever holding that felt-tip pen, taking notes in her perfect handwriting.



(Ho hum, right? who the hell cares? i got to do what no one else has probably ever done in front of a group of people! only thing is, back then i'd get pats on the back from distant classmates and an occasional professor... but now i get locked up and drugged. shit. i've been hanging with the wrong crowd.)

JLR 2004, 6:20 in the goddamn morning, manic as hell.