witty-remark's Diaryland Diary


If I were meant to study, God would surely send me a sign.

Right about now I should be hard at work, wallowing away, lost somewhere within the inner depths of my math textbook studying for the exam I have tomorrow, and worrying about the grade I'll recieve. But I can't,it's just not going to happen.

They say the calm washes in after the storm and if that is the case I'm indulging in utter serenity. After days of rain, the sun poked through and rolled over blue skies, radiating the warmth I had long awaited.

It's rather bizarre that I feel so tranquil and at peace, because I should be tense and irrepressible, but I'm thankful for the composure veiled upon me.

Today was a luminous day, perfect for doing anything one pleased. I in particular, took a pleasing to taking pictures. I slipped on what may be the nicest skirt on heaven and earth, embedded with sequins and exploding with splendid colors, and ran outside with camera in hand, to escape the torment of school. (Does it ever end?) I began taking typical pictures of flowers, leaves blowing in the wind, a wooden fence with a hole carved into it, a few birds, a bumble bee, and the occasional butterfly (those bitches are hard to photograph, they move too often), then I delved into taking pictures of anything and everything. A beaten shovel etched with gardening scars, a dandelion with its seeds blowing in the wind (I'm mainly responsible for the 'wind', but hey can you blame a girl for wanting to take a breathtaking photo? I didn't think so), a cracked egg shell fallen from a nearby nest, the wooden rooster perched among our flowers in the front yard (woody the cock, as I like to call him. My mother can't seem to find the humour in that. She spoils everything)and a few pictures of myself in my dazzling skirt. Rather snazzy if I do say so myself. By the time I had decided to wrap up my career as the next Geographic photographer, my mom had returned from an old book market. She handed me a few art books that she had purchased along with one small, thin, brown poetry book rimmed with gold and imprinted with a few pen marks. The book is called...hang on, I'll go get it. The book is called "Selections from Leaves of Grass" and the author is a man named Walt Whitman. I've been told by my mother that he's good, but what does she know? She's far from a literary critic. It smells awful and the pages are all discoloured, but other than that it is fairly good.

I took the book outside and seated myself upon the white plastic chair on our deck, conveniently positioned under the sun (with no sunblock on! Where's Jill? I'm such a badass). After reading a few pages, I collapsed back into a daydream and allowed myself to fall into wishful thinking. As I sat on the hard plastic chair I imagined myself settled on a comfortable, antique wooden chair with delicate wooden designs running around it. While I sat high on my throne, neighbours would stumble outside and watch me as I pampered myself with intellectual reading material and sipped on my ice, cold lemonade. While I stroked my hair behind my ears as the wind blew, my husband would slowly walk through our stunning glass door and kiss me on my neck. He'd ask me what I was reading and tell me about how brilliant he thought I were and how sage I was. Then he'd offer to drive us out to the beach where we would watch the sun sink down into the water, as we treated ourselves to vanilla ice cream.

Ah, if only. The boys at my school definitely don't classify as gentlemen and most of them don't even have cars, not that it would matter seeing as how the nearest beach is about an hour and a half from here,also I'm not married and sadly don't live on fantasy island. Sigh.

Oh, well.

Perhaps I should study? No.


Why am I like this? I NEED to study, yet I FEEL no need to do it. They do say follow your gut instinct but my instincts are guiding me towards the freezer where a tasty fudgecicle awaits. Damn!

Decisions, decisions.

4:17 p.m. - Sunday, Jun. 19, 2005

Then - Now

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