So I think I'm going to start updating again. We'll see how that goes.

My father died tonight.

and what else is there to do but narrow my eyes into slits against blasts of cold air, grit my teeth, and endure? it's what I've made a life of, after all.

I have new curtains, through which I watch the moon outside my window before falling asleep, when I'm not on my belly with my face buried in a pillow, or curled up fetal in the other direction. I always worry that curtains are too sheer, that someone is outside watching my outline go about whatever it is I do in my room; slouch on my red chair in front of the computer, read in bed. I don't trust these people, and I'm used to a thick industrial strength beige shade separating myself from any of the coulds or the woulds.

when I fall asleep, I have nightmares, about things that have already occurred. I liked the others better, hypothetical unlikely terrors, more easily written off or even shared. from these I just wake up deeply unsettled and unable to remember where on this timeline I stand, and it takes time to remind myself, that was a long time ago. and then I make sure the edges of my blankets are all tucked securely around me, that no phantom drafts of air can get in and leave trails of anxious goosebumps on my skin. when I toss and turn trying to fall back asleep, it's only to mummify myself further.

today I couldn't stop asking her why, not why any of these ridiculous things happened but why no one stepped in to protect me from them, why they tried to keep me from so many other things instead and in so doing missed it, missed it. it doesn't make sense that they were so overcautious and worried and scared and yet I could scream and cry to no avail, and why didn't they step in this time? I don't understand or maybe I don't want to. I'm grappling with this concept of safety in all its various forms and I don't understand how they could come up so short while overcompensating so badly in other ways, unnecessary ways, like they were trying to make up for it and maybe they were? I don't know and I won't know because I won't ask because there are things I don't want to know, things I'd rather have to wonder about because knowing won't help me sleep better at night.

October is the last month I can stand; after that the world grows dimmer, swathes of fog and wispy atmosphere drift in to fetter my vision. November begins and ends the same, keeping company with the bony skeletons of trees outlined stark against a grey sky, until night falls and strings of Christmas lights cut across my periphery like the flashing lights of an ambulance, red and white insistent as morse code. there used to be little messages left for me everywhere I cared to look but I don't try to search them out anymore, I find myself walking home from work as dusk deepens to an inky black and I turn up the sound on my headphones to drown out the rustle of dead leaves, their branches creaking like bones. I tell myself I don't care, I sing the lyrics in my head loud enough I think to drown out that creeping creeping influx of memory and sensation but it follows me all the same, at enough of a distance to be out of my range of vision when I look over my shoulder, getting a crick in my neck from whipping it around too fast, trying to catch it unawares and get a glimpse against my better judgment, but close enough so I keep persisting haunted/hunted, walking faster than I would in the day, or by the side of a busy street. it's this solitary route I take again, and I every step feels like a misstep that will leave my ankle twisted or send me lurching into the road, headlights approaching. it occurs to me that this isn't the way I want to go, and I pick up the pace of my stumbling, I look ahead. I walk the paths I'm afraid to even though I've walked them countless times before, and I come out no wiser just wearier and with my feet stinging. this morning I find a grey hair in my eyebrow and it perturbs me. all of these things I need to return to time and time again until I feel like I've figured them out; I've been going in this same circle for so long, waiting for what, a sign, a spark of upheaval, the means and fortitude.

last night emilemily & her brother & I went to see Goblet of Fire.

( cut for those who haven't seen it yet and those who don't care )

I refused all offers of rides homes today, preferring to make my solitary way along the pond with only my hooded sweatshirt against the cold. I want it to seep into my bones, make me shrink into myself, make me numb to the touch so none of this will hurt, so I won't feel a thing as I stumble around so carelessly. the sun has only barely begun to set and the moon has already risen. brown leaves loom just below the surface of the water, and I wonder what they're hiding, and I watch the ripples stretch out, out, reflecting slivers of sunlight sharp and cold as knives and I think, this would be the time to do it, fill my pockets with rocks and walk right in. the problem is, or one problem of many, is I'm pulled between multiple timelines coexisting one atop another, and the slightest shift or sensory trigger sends me from one to another, so everything that's ever happened is still happening because it's like I'm still there. I keep walking, and I don't turn around in case anything really is behind me, beyond what my imagination and fear can conjure into being, and the tears that have been collecting in my eyes all week can finally spill, and I can blame them on the biting cold. It's 11-11 and 11:11 and I should make a wish, but I'm trying not to get my hopes up anymore. they end up dashed on rocks, floating out to deeper waters where I could wade in after them, sure, but for the worry of what might be lurking below the surface, waiting to grab at my ankles and drag me down. I watch from the shore, heartache making me near delirious, and try to convince myself, I never wanted it. I never wanted that. I'm telling you, I don't care, I don't care, nothing you say can hurt me worse than I can hurt myself.

my ambition exceeds my ability. I wrote that sentence last night, intending to follow it with an entry about trying to draw, and never having my finished products turn out the way I envision them before putting pencil to paper, but tiredness crept in, filling my head with static fuzz and blurring my vision and I thought tomorrow there will be time to write this entry, as well as everything else, tomorrow I will magically be filled with the means and compulsion and eloquence to spill. this morning of course I was no closer to this magical land of easy flowing words, nor tonight but I'm sitting here anyway, trying to disengage my hands from the jumped up little editor having a fit on my shoulder on how this is all lacking. I'm consoling myself with mint M&Ms because I feel terrible, although perhaps not as much so as six or seven hours ago. I think maybe I'm having some sort of seasonal affective episode but that isn't right, all I can think when I go outside is how beautiful the weather is and yet something has wrapped itself around my heart like a shroud, muffling the frenetic sound. it's this time of year, I keep saying, and that might be acceptable except it's every time of year. there's no end to it, really, there are brief stretches of respite but when they're over the length of them is irrelevant, all that matters is they ended and they weren't enough and they may as well not have existed at all.

I'm still trying to reconstruct this day to figure out where exactly it went so wrong, even though this cloud's been hanging over me all weekend. before work I paged through some magazines, still tearing out interesting pictures, watched an episode of Law & Order Criminal Intent that my father had taped which creeped me out beyond measure. that becomes its own triggery little tailspin when my mind jumps at the speed of lightening to creature connections, however spurious, between this piece of fiction and my own archives of memory and something I told T. last year around this time which was the first and only time I said it outright, out loud, ever, and then from there, dwell with greater and greater scrutiny. I go into work still stuck in the same self perpetuating circle, or the same rut, and all of these little things are making me uncomfortable, like I think everyone is standing too close to me or when someone brushes by I recoil from even the slightest physical contact. and it all shows on my face so I have D. & S. trying to figure out what's wrong and trying to make me laugh and I just keep shaking my head sadly and apologizing. I unloaded a little on S. before he left; I kept resisting it and yet he kept asking and on some level I really wanted to tell him, just to see his face crease in sympathy or horror or I don't know what. he said something about K. and I made some offhand comment on how I dislike when he gives me back rubs, and S.'s face became grimace and suddenly I was spouting off, well, since when am I entitled to personal space, since when am I entitled to reasonable boundaries, because I'm sensitive and also I'm not because there's so much I've grown used to even if I'm never really used to it just resigned to it, that there are things I have no right for somehow. he beckons to an aisle free of customers and I start talking, mostly about the fucked up past relationship that still haunts every word, every move, and how it's wormed its way into every crack and crevice even of normal human interaction so nothing is sacred and nothing is safe, and how I want to be able to move on and make good on this thing I've been wanting for a while, that I've been so patiently (too patiently) stringing along but I know I'm going to get hurt and it's going to be one more thing to keep me up all night. how I can't trust anyone and how I'm still a scared little girl cringing and I fight against myself every step of the way and I'm just so unhappy, it all curls into itself into the most horrible knot and I can't pick it out, only wrap myself in it more tightly. S. is long suffering and patient, as is D., who kept telling me I was going to make him cry, in that simple boyish way these men have of clearing up conflict and unhappiness, so concerned and sincere, no strings and edges.

I'm not tired really but I want nothing more than to be asleep. (to be held. to be rocked to sleep. the illusion of safety and warmth. I'm getting ahead of myself, again.)

these are things you learn if forced to reckon with them long enough. waiting makes it harder, not easier. I am ruined, for anyone who could potentially come after, by nothing but words and whatever my imagination could conjure in response. even the most mild and benign of expressions and suggestions triggers a landslide, a crumbling house of cards. all communication is ruined save face to face, and that's so awkward besides.

I work ten day stretches with a double shift thrown in for good measure. I don't want to talk I want to be a machine, only I can't, but still any form of self examination seems futile. today I barely spoke at all; I am stockpiling my supply of expression, again, for the next stretch. I wish I didn't need this time to recharge.

people stop in to buy cigarettes and disposable cameras on their way to costume parties; they reek of liquor and laugh too loudly, sending hairline cracks shooting through my strained composure. a man wearing a sweatsuit with a wolf mask somehow looks so animal, so feral, so predatory, I stare at him as though hypnotized. Even after he wrenches the mask up over his head so I see his red face, his hair sticking up at angles, he retains something canine in his features. I am uneasy; J. doesn't help matters when I catch his eyes on me, half glazed over, far more than I'd like to. K., on the other hand, has yet to make any advance more threatening than a hand strayed on my shoulder and back, but I brace myself for it because I know how he is and what he is, always hanging out with the girls, of whom there aren't many, even, just G. and I and a handful of other high school kids. it would be naive to hope to be skipped over, maybe, just this once, to creep by unnoticed and unscathed. I'm a good target, they see it in my eyes, the way I look down, they smell my fear like dogs. tonight one of the girls came in to buy a costume and as I saw K. stride down the aisle to talk to her I darted over from the other side, laughed with her and shot glares at him over my shoulder. she found a child's firefighter costume, a plastic yellow raincoat and hat, and tried it on over her shirt. K. suggested that if she wore it open and topless, she'd win a contest, and I told him to fuck off and redoubled the glares I was sending him, which he seemed impervious to. finally when it became clear that I was going to stick irritatingly around he headed towards the back room, but when I caught up with him later he said only, "be nice. don't be mean." "I am nice," I shoot back. "How am I not nice? What are you talking about?" it is probably a mistake, he must see through my bravado but I want to make him wary, at least, to put caution on his tongue. why should I have to question myself for standing up to him anyway?

( my favorite times of day are those I spend walking home, taking the longest and most roundabout route possible. (15 photos) )

I hate rejoining the road, emerging on Pascack and knowing I'm that much closer to walking through the front door and taking my headphones off.

( last night I went with my mother to a rummage sale at the church she used to work at. (2 photos) )

half of my apartment complex always shows up for this, which is mostly why I avoid it, usually, but this year I was looking for a replacement grey sweater for my Hogwarts uniform. I trail my mother closely, not leaving her shadow, even, half smiling sheepishly as she yammers on with all the people she knows, ducking my head when I'm introduced. M., a man who lives in the complex, cuts in front of us and starts bugging my mother in his nearly incomprehensible voice, garbled with muscle contractions and spittle and the guttural sound of grating motion. One of the old ladies comes up alongside. "M., remember how you used to bother this girl? chase her around everywhere?" I am a rabbit in the headlights, cornered and grabbed at even as they're laughing and I'm thinking I never found it funny, to be chased and to watch his arm snake out towards me, how I would shriek and cry and cower and I never understood why he wouldn't stop. I half expect him to start again now and give him a wide berth.

every move I make, everything I do is instructed by a laundry list of fears and past hurts, of should have knowns and shocks and sensory memory, of the ghosts of tears.

I don't trust myself to speak anymore (right now). I'll get over it, perhaps, or the edges of certain memories will soften and blur until they're no longer knives in my side, making it difficult to fall asleep.

I took a long walk in the rain this afternoon, there and back again, in search of some badly needed perspective. Over and over I repeat this phrase in my head, there's nothing like a walk in the rain..., but I come to no conclusions except that it was a bad idea to climb this hill in my heavy black boots, even if they do keep the moisture from seeping into my socks. what perspective I already have grants me little illumination, just nudges me slightly in one direction, then another, never with any force or confidence. this has nothing to do with that. this has to do with you, and with me attempting to be honest because finally it seemed like the only sincere option. The reason I treat you like this is because I love you, and I'm afraid. Loving and being loved has done little but create monsters and sinkholes and extra-dimensional hells before my eyes, and so I'd rather avoid the hurt and humiliation and I'm more afraid of being hurt than you could ever imagine, of rendering myself vulnerable and defenseless so you could look into my eyes and they'd be clear all the way to the bottom. At the same time I crave it, being understood and accepted even torn and crumpled and messy, exactly as I am and not oh if you'd be this way or that, if you'd be more of this and less of the other then, then you could be something. the trouble is I can never pin down my organic emotional reactions to things, or once I have them I cover them with layer upon layer of camouflage, moss and deceit, I hide them so well I can't find them again myself and I have no map, I have no guide and I don't know what came first or what came before me.

I want to make sure you understand these things about me, that I think I am a terrible person, that first and foremost I seek to protect myself, that when I cut off contact it's because I want to throw you off of what you're getting into, because I want to save us both the trouble of me using you as a mental and emotional punching bag, pillow. and then when someone calls me on one of many things I've called myself, time after time after time, it terrifies me because it means my act isn't as good as I've hoped. and if you've begun to catch on, and I decide to unload upon you I clutch with my death grip like a leech, I sink and clutch for your hands but never grab on tightly enough for their to be a fighting chance. I lay this on the table because I want it to be different if I ever try again, and you are one of the few people who will call me on my bullshit but not often enough, but what can I say I am hopeless.

I will regret writing this but at the same time I want to stand by it, because I can be strong and I can be unsinkable but there has to be more to this life than tucking my knees and elbows in and surviving. I don't know how but I could try, I could make it up as I go along, as long as you know and don't hold it against me. would you? have I gone too far, is there no returning, am I in the wrong place will I need to disappear into ether to stop the aftershocks? that's what I've had to say and what I haven't said and what I've been hiding.

Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Ginny Weasley/Luna Lovegood

Date Started: October 23rd, 2005
Date Finished: tba

Current Progress: 002 / 100

( my prompt chart )

this will be updated continually throughout the challenge.
(Last Update: November 6th, 2005)

I uploaded October 7th's Witching Hour photos at iamortentia (read only password = alovepotion) there's still a ton more to go but I'd like to get to work on time tomorrow, and I wasted an hour of tonight being disappointed by Lost. I'm not integrating these with a recap and captions until they're all up, which with any luck will happen tomorrow.