Sunday

Well, I did it again. I cried through the end of Wuthering Heights, tears pouring down my face while laughing almost hysterically at the ability of the movie to make me cry. I didn't think that a good movie could have been made about that powerful book, but they did it. Lawrence Olivier, Jesus Holy Christ, what a beautiful man! It makes me feel sad that he's old, and that he can see this movie and think + look back on what he once was. But then again, in Sleuth he was still of top of it all. I mean if you want to talk about machismo... I went with Sarah to the concert hall in BU to see it. SU's friend N came with us.

Now, to GBYSO. A- has become a lot more communicative, at least I'm no longer getting the cold shoulder. R and I are getting along very well, I'm pleased to say. I like her. We shared a brownie and an apple, her money. Next time it will be mine.

I practiced two hours in the morning. I got my photo taken for GBYSO. It would be funny to see my face in the paper again. I bet they don't print it.

The thing I guess that struck me most about Wuthering Heights was the gut for of its emotions. What would Emily Brontë say seeing the power her story had on the screen to affect people. She could not help but be proud. I am left still wondering if such a love can exist, and if it can do anything but hurt. Such a "same stuff" for two souls, so many writers write of it, where does one find it in real life ~ if at all. So much love is like that of Cathy and Edgar, sweet, but not strong and vibrant, lightly physical, but without the bodily soul. What is it? I don't think it counts. But it's what so many accept ~ everybody? Or is it only so few others ever have a chance to experience it. The question and discussion is very hard. Almost painful.

Why do they write about it, if it hasn't ever been seen on earth. To aspire to, to make a myth ofit, to delude oneself with hope? Or is there really the possibility of this? No one will say plainly. They speak with poetry, or the Victorian mouths of Emily + Charlotte Brontë, or even in teh unsubstantiated newspaper account of frozen lovers found dead in each others' arms where was escape was possible for one. Show it to me real and happy ending! Or is it there, right in front of my face with my mother and my father? God knows what any of the empty words and definitions mean, and I even can't talk about the whole subject without getting prosy and wordy and "poetic" myself.

I've got a headache, I think it's from crying. I also am thinking about the news reel they showed first. That was pretty incredible too. But the acting in Wuthering Heights was incredible. It must be so hard to convey the feelings when you're acting in front of a hot camera lights under movie make-up. But genius shines through. He was as good in Rebecca but completely different. HMM, well, there's school tomorrow so ~

Tuesday

Sorry I didn't write yesterday. It was quite a day. Somehow I wasted alot of time and I didn't get to bed until 12.

Well, you tell me, does it or does it not mean something when someone calls you "sweets," asks you what's wrong when you look in the doldrums, makes jokes and brings you into the conversation + (am I only imagining it) seems to hold your hand a little bit longer than you expect when he takes your sweatsuit down to the sports closet for you. I don't know, of course I'd like to think so, but I can remember others (ML) who acted similarly behind whom other motive than just being nice I never found. It's quite possible that he gets a kick out of seeing my face go red or something, but I sure don't make it easy for him. I give him a hard time.

HMM, perhaps I'm just making it up. Seems to me that DE was friendlier than usual. But that's fine with me.

Today I think DBo really got off because I stole his math book, and then let him me with the homework. I still didn't finish. I let him have the book, a noble gesture considering it was his. I trust I made him feel sufficiently guilty about it though.

I went home with K, and we had a long talk in the kitchen as Mom unloaded some things from the car, and even after she went to her studio, about K's hopeful trip to Europe (England + France) with J, this coming summer. I'd like to do that too.

For the first time, I guess, i really missed him. They didn't have a class, it seems both R and B got concussions. I won't see him until Monday. Oh hell. You know, the worst part is when you think you you have reason to hope and you have to wait, and wait, and wait. And with more than the back of your mind you know you're wrong. It really does hurt, really.

I just finished reading The Condor Passes by Shirley Ann Grau. Pretty good, but I get sort of bored with all the sex. The sex without love, really. I guess I'm really sentimental and I like real love stories. They just don't seem to happen in real life, and strangely enough that truth is bitterly reflected in dry, cynical, sad empty novels. Beautifully written, clear + dry without love. I'm not really saying what I wanted to say the way I wanted to say it.

Jesus, look at that, I've already written a novel. A novel about me, hardly has a plot, pretty crummy writing and already 93 pages. What can I do with 200? or 1000? will it be just more of the same, or ever changing. I keep wondering who else will read this, other than me in later years. My parents, when I die, or surreptitiously before? My children? My teachers? My cousins, aunts, etc? does it make any difference? Of course! Because I am essentially writing for an audience, as yet unknown. Clap, ye knaves, clap! I want laurels and acclamations, sing ye forth with praise. It gives me an ego trip to think of people reading what I've written and going ooh, and aah. And it makes me laugh to think of them reading this section with knowing or analytical looks on their faces.

My lips are very chapped. I have to meditate, and I have an English paper due tomorrow.

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