Frank and F.Scott
Forget that angtsy crap down there, here’s the real deal:
Posted by: Zosia | 09-30-2000 | 02:09 PM
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This post became relevant two years later
High-intensity relationships and friendships — ones where you’re so close you breathe each other, feed off of each other, become each other — slowly change from good intensification to horrible intensification until they eventually combust, leaving bitter ashes and burn scars.
Trust is relative, and I’m beginning to believe it’s a hollow word.
Posted by: Zosia | 09-29-2000 | 08:09 PM
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Party Abstract
I love parties. I’m not what you would call a party chick or whatever the terminology is — I’m more in love with the concept of a party and in the inner scandals that occur within them. People in separate rooms, inhibitions gone, cups clutched in hands, hands animated, voices boisterous or soft and chill-like. Blurry colours, muffled sounds, laughter or crying in every corner, the sweet scent of juice and alcohol and cake and smoke all mingling in the kitchen.
Last night was Corina’s birthday party. We’ve ended up having a party every Friday and Saturday night since school has begun, so it’s not like it was out of the ordinary. I drank and got slowly muddled.
Corina pulled me aside and drunkenly told me how angelic and beautiful she thought I was, and how when she died, she hoped she saw someone like me. How amazing is that? I’ve never been so touched. We hugged. Drink in hand, I ran back to my room and wanted to write.
I was alone, in comes Luke. Luke and I have a thing going on that has no name. We’ve never acted on it and that makes it magic. We ended up on my bed, cuddled into each other. We talked about our thing, and how perfect we would be for each other, but I have an Erik and he has a confusion.
Back to the party. Somewhere along the line, Andrew has ended up in drag and Matt is gone on the couch, Beth crouched next to him.
Abbey made a brief appearance, but the girl is so in love she can’t be away from her new boy for more than a few hours. I remember how it is. She leaves.
It seems the world is talked about. I love all these people so much, but you already know that.
Erik and I fall into my bed, fast asleep, and don’t wake until noon.
Ah, and now the revelry is gone, and I have an essay to write.
Posted by: Zosia | 09-17-2000 | 10:09 PM
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A Girlfriend Again
Ah, so I’m not quite as poetically blah about things as I have been this week. I’ve just been having audition after audition and flubbing all of them, so I got a bit peeved, if I may use that word, with everything. And I’m still in a state of fine arts tension, but as, ahh Samuel Beckett said, “I must go on. I can’t go on. I will go on.”
So, the boy, the tall kid from Fargo who is currently sporting blue hair (which looks actually pretty sexy on him) and I are officially the couple word, thanks to my blessing with it all, though I’m still a little shaky on the whole thing. It’s weird to be a girlfriend again, but it’s a much healthier relationship with a much nicer person. Still, I have my doubts, more in me, than in him.
Just for the record, my classes:
- Voice and Movement for the Actor
- Music Theory/Sight-Singing
- Theatre Elements
- Ballet
- Theatre Marketing
- Vocal Jazz
There’s a long drawn-out story behind the vocal jazz, but I’ll pass on it for now.
It’s a different year than last year. I’m not sure how to describe it. Some things are so brand spanking new that the world is a little frazzled and other things are so routine that I’m yawning. But I do so love my friends.
“A kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder . . .”
Posted by: Zosia | 09-13-2000 | 12:09 AM
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The Call Board
And I don’t want to go back there right now. I don’t even want to breathe the air of the fine arts hallway or see the crowds, the girls with their little hips and shiny hair, the sleek dancer boys that remind me too much of Nick, the musicians, off in a safe cocoon in Humanities, locked inside the rooms. I can’t remember who it was that told me that I would eventually fail out of life if I kept going the way I was going, but I’m beginning to think they’re right.
The butterflies murdering each other in my stomach as I browse the list, trying to look nonchalant. There are Js, but those are the Jessicas (the tall redhead with the sculptured face – how I hate her!) and the Johns and a Jenny, but there isn’t a me. The twisting feeling, one I have learned to control over many months of practice, enters the stage, but I swallow and I smile, and we walk off.
So, I don’t really know what to do, but I guess all there is to do when you don’t know what to do is keep moving, keep breathing, keep living, if even half-consciously for the day. I’m beginning to think, though, I don’t have it in me anymore, that the part that commanded the stage has died.
I just don’t want to smell the paint or the wood or the sweat and excitement of those who have made it, who know the cut, who can be thin and beautiful and relish the glory.
Posted by: Zosia | 09-07-2000 | 01:09 PM
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First Part of Sophomore Year
I’m back at school and moved in, coffee in me, rain outside, yellow unnamed flowers on my desk, a little hungover, more emotionally than physically and having the urge to take a two day nap for no other reason than the fact that I’m bored and lazy and blah to the world.
But here, back here, everyone here, pure bliss, everyone gathered again. Something magical about the formation of our friends, some inner light that peeks through the air when we gather.
Last night: dinner with Erik’s parents, Italian restaurant. I am now socially graceful. The restaurant is fancy, known for it’s wine, with a sleek, but somehow casual ambience. His Dad I love, has the same genuine charm as Erik, doesn’t try too hard, just is with the same blue eyes and sweetness as his son. The stepmom makes me nervous, a little invalidated, though she laughs at my dumb jokes over bruschetta. Tells me it’s perfectly okay for me to be Southern and to have an accent, as if I was worried. Doesn’t know the strength of Southern pride or just the strength in me.
We return to the boy’s room and the mood is quiet. I hitched a ride on the wagon for two days and now I’m ready to rough it out on the ground. Southern Comfort and Coke for me, and I discover a new favourite taste. The boys get into it, though I worry about Andrew, our sensitive artist. He has sensory overload on alcohol, but SoCo and Coke for him. The mood lightens, we’re together again and magic, magic sizzles between us, we’re blood brothers, we’re soulmates, we pile on the couch and we love each other so much that no one else exists.
Matt is a funny drunk and we love him. Andrew teaches me how to play guitar, while Erik wanders from room to room, looking a little lonely, a little lost. Chris J. is glued to his computer screen and pretty soon he replaces us on the couch, and he is asleep.
We gather in Chris and Erik’s bedroom, the four of us, and we celebrate friendship. I tell them I want to marry them all and it’s true: if I could, somehow, I would never leave them. The four us together is true love, now I know the definition.
Erik’s ex-girlfriend comes into play online. She wants to be back together and why not? Erik is so wonderful and comforting. I don’t blame her for wanting him, I sure as hell would if I wasn’t with him, but that’s where the confusion lies.
He tells her no and Andrew tells me I’m beautiful. Luke was supposed to come over, but he’s unpacking. He lost a bet with me and the prize was a kiss, something we’re too shy to give. Drunken talks on IMs, he tells me he wants me, Erik in the room, tan arms under white shirt, sexy half-lidded eyes and full mouth, I stop talking to Luke.
Andrew to bed, I tuck him in. Matt lingers, than falls. I chug water and fall into Erik’s bed, asleep already. He brings the wireless ethernet Mac up and I rest on his chest. I feel a little married, but content.
Morning comes, he’s late for work, I feel my welcome overstayed, though I live across the hall. Shower and then I disappear, needing the coffee, the books, the alone time.
And now here I am, in a random poetic mood, but mostly just full of exhaustion and curiousity.
Posted by: Zosia | 09-03-2000 | 01:09 PM
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