Creation

To destroy is to create, and to create something, one must destroy. Destroy, create, destroy, create.
Yeats had the idea, his cataclysmic gyre and poor maiden under the swan make me want to destroy my old poetry, the stuff of imagined glory, and out of the ashes collect new phoenixes of words. I've been unleashing the hounds in my mind and its been delicious.

Progress is slow coming this week...the casting still isn't complete, and my friends with the capability of filming are on a field trip for the rest of the week, my friend Hannah who has been helping me develop the costumes and such for the play has been sick, and the camera equipment has been sparse since most of it is in use by the other classes or away with the good ones in Orlando.
I wil be leaving Friday afternoon for California to stay with family on my father's side. I love the golden coast, but I know the twisting feeling in my chest will come about when I step into the airport, without the boy I love. He will be stuck here, in this stuffy suburbia, full of its gas guzzling Escalades and high maintenance house wives. At least he has good friends. Our friends.
California should be fun, and thank modern technology for cell phones. My family I'm staying with is cool,  they live in a gorgeous house filled with sleek modern furniture mixed with eclectic asian inspiration. The zen feeling of the place is soothing, and the inhabitants themselves are very chillax. Their daughter, she has an amazing job, she models for Suicide Girls, which is a company sort of like Playboy, except dipped in ink and metal. Its models are punks, rebels, girls with gorgeous tattoos and wild hair colors, girls who I admire for their ability to be so fearless when the camera shows their skin. I want to model for something of that nature, but I guess I have to wait until I'm 18, child pornography is quite an inappropriate addition to a permanent record...