MY NAME IS ELIZABETH DARCY BUCK

BUT YOU CAN CALL ME LIZZIE BUCK

reading & play series idea

reading a lot again, like i used to as a girl... or like i used to before college i guess.

bought bill hick's bio/collection of material at b&n today in honor of writing something i could be proud of...

thinking of writing a series of adapted plays from my interpretations of the full albums i listen to like a hawk... trying to hear the message/story, etc.


AMAZING life affirming quotes in this Bill Hicks book....

beauty school drop in

thinking of beauty school to pursue a day job to support what i'm majoring to do in college.

...you should see what i just did to my eyebrows. now that's fucking magic!

the kentucky cycle

my leave of absence from performing and arts education, since starting pre ballet at age three till smashing a guitar on stage at age twenty-one, lasted over a year.


once a mystery to me, i have learned to load a gun, point it at my target, pull the trigger; and hit.

i feel a lot less anxious, knowing what it need to take for me to kill. control is sexy.

what does this say about me

muholland drive is the type of movie that leaves the audience admitting, "i didn't get it.", when the credits began rolling when i viewed it in may i totally got it. so much that it left me kind of creeped out cause it hit so close to home.

unraveling of reality allows a person to begin abstract thinking; but normalcy doesn't disappear unless something rocked that person's soul. traumatically.

once your brain is able to make sense out of the unrelatable; your illogical logic will just come off a bit insane. then you learn to shut up.

goodbye yellow brick road, by elton john

motivation

on my walk to class, i thought the idea of denying myself nourishment until writing ten pages each day would be a fantastic motivator.

i'm not sure if english breakfast tea and cigarettes will count as nourishment, even if the idea of being a tea drinker and hand rolled cigarette smoker is appealing to my writer-image.

just not the same anymore

just not the same anymore
it's really depressing trying to live a better life
parliament light 100s were such a good distraction.
and diet coke (in a can)
or living in a total mess

my wheels

Today I learned,

Apparently, my frequent beloved long strolls make me a FLANEUR. With a ^ atop the "A".

take-it-back

dear you (yes! you! you there!),

on my journey as an artist (oh. god. is it more humiliating i phrased it "on my journey as an artist", or the fact i literally couldn't discover another way to phrase what i meant by "on my journey as an artist"? did i just take steps back on this journey for explaining this to you? i try to avoid explaining as much as the words "can't", "like", "never", "like" and "always".  "like")

fuck it!

basically, i can't explain what i was writing about before october 1st, 2008. 

i wanted to delete them all from you, like my former blog from the spring; which remains saved as documents for my eyes only. alas, i won't. 

i am not ashamed of my un-edited kerouac-ing rhymes &/or reasons... 

i spoke abstractly, it was cowardly. 

my little sister birdy didn't like any of my writing this past year... she is my best judge, audience, & critic; which obviously bothered me to not hear her sing my praises or just laugh. "it's like you're hiding" 

sigh

there were many things i so did not want to admit last year that i couldn't open my mouth to speak without hiding. isn't it always an odd feeling when you see the truth in your past; which is naturally when you felt the most true, but i just become the personification of my fears conveniently justified by the naive glamour of rebellion.  

i became a very poetically described loser because my rebellion had no merit, aside running away from anything that could potentially help me accomplish my dreams of an artistic career in the entertainment business. 

the weight of purgatory became suffocating by mid june. 

by the end of the first week in september,  i couldn't even imagine a life with dreaming because i became so terrified of getting let down by this ungainly adult life i rushed in to by dropping out of school with four letter words, passionate improvised anger, & a slightly damaged discarded guitar seemingly made from rough sturdy card board like wood (allowing you to assume i shattered a patent leather fender studded in emeralds would not do my story any justice. the guitar, and myself, were both cheap and lookin to get canned); which is way too epic to have any interesting life follow afterwards. 

the boring formality of graduating has it's perks. 

i.e. structure and entering the real world after finishing something other then multiple orgasms alone. 

Not that it's any of your business, but I now believe that classic story used in every culture/generation/gender/race/religion/country of origin/film/television/novel/novella/debatably the biblical tale of jesus christ/lifetime movie/highway 61 revisited/holden of new york or dorothy of kansas. should be spelled in an alternative fashion cuming of age. If thirteen year old boys had the freedoms of a twenty-one  year old college girl, he would have never made it to high school. my mother had thrown me off the nest as it was, so she certainly wasn't going avoid the mess of discovering the greatest way to pass the time alone and avoid life all together.  creative writing or exploring my sexuality safely in the privacy of my own tree house like apartment? the latter had better lighting and allowed my former chain smoking habits. it's just hard to read 5-7 page short stories from students who invest over 100,000$ on their college education, and still manage to have only read The Notebook. And loved it. If  The Babysitter's Club and Goosebumps for children is what The Notebook is for adults. Read them,  but understand that  Readers Digest  introduces more complex ideas and innovative structure then Nicholas Sparks has written in his career as a novelist. A nine year old girl could plug in words like Soulmate and Cancer and Wrong-Side-Of-The-Train-Tracks or Townie and 1964 and poof! 

Today I realized I have never been happier before in my life, and I live without fear of another shoe to drop as I constantly worried my former happiness away. In every aspect of my life currently, I am at peace and so thankful for the people and opportunities that I can carve out and fill my time with as to avoid the unfortunate fact that this life feels like eternity and it only gets longer and longer and longer. So take it from me, don't ever see what life feels like without the concern of time. Anyone in their right mind will go insane.

Good Night.  

(written last night around 4 am)

"Just Like Starting Over"

Dear Diary,

I finished my first journal in April of two-thousand-and-six during my Sophomore year at Boston University's School of Theatre in 855 Commonwealth Ave. I started an obsession with journals and diaries in the first grade. My allowance was spent on the hope that hundreds of bounded blank pages would be the one. Thousands of trees died in vain; the average entries per diary was a generous three. In fourth grade, after two or three years in to my Holocaust phase and reading the Diary of Anne Frank; Abridged, I read the night's attempt in a pink small sized lined leather diary with a tiny key with a heart shaped keyhole strung in a ribbon of thin darker pink satin and tossed it in the trash.

A completely rational ten year old, I felt it to be delusional to write down the accounts of my upper middle class existence in North West Washington, D.C. 

Why kid myself? 

I pitied my fellow classmates in Ms. Johnson's second grade class as they shared their career plans for their adult future. 

"Baseball player!"

FCC Lawyer

"Movie Star!"

Journalist, USA Today

"Rock Star!"

Speech Writer, Democrat

"James Bond!"

Speech Writer, Republican

"Ballerina"

Binger/Purger/Cocaine

"I want to be a pathologist."

"What is that Lizzie?"

"The person who cuts up dead people to see how they died." I answered wearing a pink cotton turtleneck dress with pockets in the shape of hearts in white wool tights and my black patent leather mary janes. Too naive to be aware of the irony... yet.

These wishful dreamers also finished diaries without panic attacks and anxiety. They did not concern themselves with style, labeling, print or cursive, topic, mood, the routine of morning or noon or moon, pen ink. Not even the DESIGN OF THE JOURNAL itself. They wrote the god damn entry documenting their day upon day upon day until they finished the diary or grew bored half way through. 

I couldn't bear the humiliation of future generations finding my thoughts worth writing down for evidence of my place in the story of man kind limited to my crushes on safe nice white boys lacking mystery, danger, or balls (literal and metaphorical) and my promises of epic passion to finish this one. 

Future generations will find no trace of my evidence in written account from my own free will. 

Anne Frank had something to write about. 

In the summer of nineteen-ninety-nine my family visited London followed by Amsterdam for two weeks. Every day while my father was lecturing; Mommy, Birdy, and I went sightseeing by foot to Art museums, sites of noted history, well known bookstores listed as literary hot spots, and many cafes in between for culture digestion. In the evening, after Dad finished for the day, we would all attend dinner followed by a musical in the West End. 

Birdy and I always wore lovely dresses for what the occasion demanded. The only traces of my American heritage were my nails in chipped polish in the bright shade of white. Until I aged to sixteen and a few months, I never understood the concept of painting your finger nails in anything but white. Didn't white match with everything? Did no female in history catch on to this practical shade? We adored the European Cartoon Network, and I did impressions to make her laugh in all our waking hours. 

That trip, in hindsight, is an unlikely combination of my girlhoods passions. London offered the home of Queen Elizabeth I, my favorite historical heroine, and the medical battlegrounds of the victims of the Black plague. Then I would complete the trip by spending a week in the city where Anne Frank had to go in to hiding in the infamous annex; which Nazi soldiers dragged her to the concentration camp where she would die of disease days before the survivors would find liberation at the ending of World War Two. 

Unimaginable pain, cruelty, and vulgarity were the themes of my early interests. The first time I read Anne's diary it didn't make much of an impression to my at age nine. My preference was for the survivor's stories. Those who saw the deaths of their families one by one, came of age in torture for the goal of the eventual extinction of their heritage. 

Don't spare me the details. I want to know all. 

How else would I know about human suffering? How else would I be reminded to be thankful for my boring existence filled with love, learning, and responsible parents guiding my through my chick years in our beautifully decorated home with bed time stories every night and time outs if we misbehaved; but always ended in deeply emotional apologies complete with tears and promises to never ever ever never ever be bad again. No matter how rebellious I felt on any given matter; it never felt worth it for too long if it meant going against my genius Mother. A woman whose intelligence, courage, and no tolerance for bull shit is confirmed as magical after you realize she can knit you one of museum quality while baking handmade chocolate chip cookies in the dozens while finding two house cats accidently let out by her husband or two daughters. 

Arenda Jane Holladay does not forget to shut the door all the way. 

Arenda Jane Holladay does not forget.

Arenda Jane Holladay broke a man's legs by throwing a metal pipe she found in a deserted construction site after being followed on foot, bus, and foot by the rapist of over thirty women; which the cops discovered after blaming the young woman for her initiative. She said they gave her more trouble then her victim. 

Arenda Jane Holladay does not need to mention this to anyone she meets.

She does not forget, but sets an example for those who feel the need to divulge their painful life history forgetting their audience by their wiser choice to spare us the details in personal conversation.

It's ill mannered and offensive to discuss your personal sex life, religion and spirituality, and political stances. If you are lucky enough to experience every opinion and belief, without the influence of appeasing other's opinions, and reach the nirvana of accepting the discouraging fact that no one is right in their belief and boiled down they all pretty much are the same anyways only differing in the selfish height a person can convince themselves their chosen view is absolutely impossibly wrong. Like Hitler. Or abortion clinic terrorists. And vegans who smoke a pack-per-day. 

I don't have opinions. I can't make judgements. I tell-it-how-it-is; which involves observation then regurgitation. 

Occasionally, I get side tracked. I'm not forcing my conservative liberalism or liberal conservatism or Jews-For-Jesus or Americans-for-going-against-the-founding-father's-wishes-for-the-benefit-of-the-future-nation-they-so-valiantly-fought-for-the-free-worlds-independence-in-a-democracy-without-party-representation? 

This entry requires not the need of structure and argument to convince you to believe what I write. 

That's probably why I've yet to generate a reader base. Who could blame my absent audience?

I hate being talked at too, but I love reading novels. As well as watching interviews. 

A few individuals in the history of the recorded human race are interesting, intelligent, and inspirational to talk at and be listened back. 

Bob Dylan or Joan of Arc. 

You listen to their words out of need; which needs to be mentioned because I must confess the sick entertainment I get out of being talked at by idiots who think they are Bob Dylan or Joan of Arc. 

Why do you think reality television is such a sick addiction, and additionally being a wonderful source of current anthropological data on various cultures of the great thinking species. Once the offer of a reality television program documenting my existence, around the Thanksgiving holiday in two-thousand-and-six, fell in to my list of my refused could-have-made-it chances. 

Apparently, I'm not as self destructive as we all thought. As if I would allow cameras to follow me around capturing footage to be cut together by a producer trying to find a story line in a non-fictional character.  

Not until the day I avoid using "like" in spoken or typed conversations or monologues. There is hope my soliloquies and inner thoughts don't need the cripple of vague descriptions. 

Thank You Nora Ephrom. From the bottom of my generation's heart representing all females who watched Clueless before puberty. Don't worry, Sex and The City made us whores. Cher just made us want to appear and sound like idiots.

With heart. 

Like any generation could boast more attractive females. It's hard to worry if it take two hours to straighten our locks to glossy spaghetti without the fullness of Medusa's snakes. I turn to stone faster when looking at the former.

I don't make enough money to afford pulling of the hooker look yet. You make it when you get to homeless hooker status. I find the empty streets more homey then magnificent blobs of giant a la mansion du jour decorated by a stranger whose taste you trust more then your own. Isn't that hint number one you shouldn't be living in a 23 bedroom and 29 1/3 bath complex? You could turn it in to a beautiful foster home with the water park and tennis courts; but the heated driveways for the 3 days of snow per year could be a bit excessive for you to donate to the poor. The science of a pavement surface producing heat from the ground could be straining for their brains trying to grasp the concepts challenged to them in their basic(ally a joke) level science courses.   

God, wouldn't it be glorious to be rich enough to justify whatever the fuck you needed justifying?

Money is the fastest way to shake off an existential crisis.

We visited The Annex on our first day in Amsterdam in the late morning and a group of German boys in their mid to late teens got to second base with the statue in the likeness of the thirteen year-old author who did not have the luxury as to stand outside in the same spot like her metal twin did.   

I felt uncomfortable as I realized the mature understanding that nouns with deep sentiment to ones could mean a hysterical joke to others. Especially when in a group mentality. 

Since we were girls, and even now as young women, every family activity (vacationing or hiking or learning or etc.) was spent with my one woman show of entertainment purely for the sake of making Birdy laugh at The Prado or Space Mountain or various spots along The Oregon Trail, and the entire country of Greece. Unless we hated eachother, which sisters frequently do and frequently forget when realizing they truly will never find a better ally or worst enemy.*

We were both to afraid to speak in The Annex as we walked through the guided tour. In the gift shop, I chose The Diary of Anne Frank; Unabridged & Unedited. I spent my final days in Amsterdam re-reading her diary as she put it, and not Children's Book Publishers. I read the diary of a thirteen year old girl, very similar to me. I knew Anne and I would have laughed at the same amusing moments together if she was walking with me. The entire diary is quite long, and I carried a book around with me always, so I was so engrossed in her words it felt hard to not imagine Anne and I were not actually together in the canal city of bicycles and the remarkably tall Dutch. I read her diary and suspended the knowledge of her tragedy post writing. It wasn't until I got to the last page, deceivingly before many pages of notes as to not prepare you for the abrupt end, that Anne and I were not the same girl dealing with the same issues and dreaming of the same secret things. 

Anne was hiding from the Nazis in a hidden upstairs where she lived with her family and strangers; which included a crushable boy who found her crushable back. Stuck there. With him. For years. 

My insides turned green. Anne Frank lived my dream. 

What would be the point of writing a diary?

Until I at least made it out of my teens.

Yours Truly,

Lizzie

*For a few summers Katie and I decided to memorize and mimic on demand The Best of Mike Myers. She, blonde, played Garth to my, brunette, Wayne; which was by far our best performance out of the 90 minute performance. Though Katie did the most disturbing Dr. Evil impressions, always quoting the line using the word "testicles"**; but Katie Bird didn't know the definition of the word she'd drop in small diners or Route 66 to the horror of small towns eating the greatest pie/burgers/bbq/chili or whatever the special that demanded our family to test out The Greatest Steak in America in Colby, Kansas. The Greatest Steak in America is in Colby, Kansas.

**Katie passed out with her face looking right up at The David's nut sack in an Italian restaurant in Bermuda. Oddly.   

 

AMERICANITIS: #1

I feel safe again with a computer once again on my lap. 

Desktop writing did not suit me. 

Intimacy is essential in the writing process.

Or until I deserve the right to write on a 24 inch screen.

I'm ready for you readers, listeners, and/or viewers.

G-L-O-R-I-A-IA-IA-IA-IA

I'm thinking of you. 

Love,

Gloria

transformation

patti smith is from the same alien planet as i, we are part venus/part american indian.

magic is slowly seeping back in to my finger tips

knock on wood

8 Lives

Fall 2008...

This Time With Feeling

on second thought,

i wish i could watch my stomach eat it's self. 

purgatory

adult life seems more ungainly by the minute.

i dont update contacts when i lose my phone; i just figure out who really is my friend every 2-3 months

TAKE TWO: BOSTON to CORONADO

This time with feeling! No delusions.

I don't need pressure to write 

the masterpiece in my head

the story beginning at 13 

when a classic Queen 

reached out, touched down 

and spoke to me.  

a spell cast, and when I 

woke up, I found out 

I grew up in to

seventeen.

the race horse began to wake up

without having learned

his entitled dignity. 

Speed broke, and I raced

to catch up; but 

to what? 

Aged 21 in a quick blur.

December 24th, I awoke to reality.

and graciously, 

began training to be 

the winning thoroughbred;

I was bred and trained

and bought, hoped, 

then gambled

 by family, friends, 

and the faculty.

when i'm put 

for the night

in the stalls 

of the barn

where they sleep

naively, because,

we are tied up equally.

i neigh g'nite,

always poiltely, to

the donkey to my right,

the elephant to my left 

and the show ponies

who always

stare (clearly wishing

my death.) and

used to threaten me.

I placed my first race,

I didn't win. 

The undefinable 

finally flashed-

aware at last!

to me,

not the breeders

this time, and now 

regretful betters,

and so what if i lose,

if it's what she

wants to choose;

cause baby it's better

to die glue, then to 

bounce with you.

Out of respect, 

RACE HORSES 

are ridden by jockeys 

not children 

not cops

not cowboys 

not casual

ever, at all

 

" "

I want to be Bob Dylan, but look like Grace Kelly, a genius ambition.

to my jack;

sometimes, 

it's hard for me to believe that there are no such things as coincidences.

that everything adds up, equals, and connects.

we are all one, i'm having trouble finding the differences.

between me and a queen, or me and a janitor, or my grandmother.

i haven't been writing lately. i no longer feel magical.

it's a fucking bummer.

fatalism takes the edge off

on sunday, riding in a bus from new hampshire to boston, i asked for a sign. because i need them desperately during moments like these. 

jules verne,  my best friend graciany; a couple of the most notable since i asked 36 hours or so ago. 

last night a mission became clear to me. then the thought, it's time to run and win this race. looking the fellow race horse's in the eye for the first time, i knew i couldn't let them beat me. not for selfish pride, but for the greater good of mankind. 

illuminating needs to occur. the great work begins?

back to school?

i couldn't listen to my three favorite albums by kanye west for three weeks. i already miss being a college dropout. it's so obnoxious the way my friend's eyes light up when i tell them i'm going back. i'm just lonely and bored.

Day Before Independence

I'm scared.

... and I don't want to be alone.

Hold my hand? I don't let go, 

Let's begin again. 

22 1/3 years attempting to fool 

the curious and doubtful, don't worry.

2 years paying for the debt, 

and now I'm proud enough to make it up to you...

Soberly and True, 

allow me to make it up 

for you. So let me 

introduce to you... 

Lizzie, BE COOL

Write Sad.

Talk about Momma and Dad,

Katie Bird, Phil & Lil,

Petipa, Georgie, plus Casey

(female) now dead.

Laura, Flynn & Casserly;

Boys Last-Named Zuckerman, Martin, Madison, Denvir, & Scall.

Before Scarlet, Hamlet, Freddie or Spain;

There's a girl I'd like to introduce,

the flutist prodigy, ballerina, and future Pathologist

(post schooling- medicine; but all dead)

The best friend and former expert on 

Elizabeth the First, Anne Frank, 

& Egyptian nostril cavities. 

She only wore pink, but 

don't be decieved. Her day dreams 

got her thinking morbidly. 

My Seven Year Old Self,

and the best character 

I've yet to play.  

"good morning joan"

the only thing that seems natural right now is to bake cupcakes.

they're not homemade. but i only use strawberry cake mix. so it's better then fancy baked from scratch. or i justify it that way. only because i had a february birthday, and a mother who brought seasonly appropriate treats for my elementary school class.

do you remember when you were too old to bring cupcakes to school on your birthday?

it broke my heart, like the december night after my mommy read a christmas story (we read advent in children's literature). her hand flipped the switch to my light, but before she shut the door i called out to her; "mom? santa isn't real is her?"

more of a whisper and full of desperate fear. 

she sat down on my bed, and let me down easier then any human being in all history.

i woke up yesterday morning, too early for a twenty two year old girl living in boston for the summer with nothing to do but wonder what to do, and miley cyrus performed on good morning america. then, after a spliff i stumbled upon freedom writers... i couldn't help myself, i cried for two straight hours. i hate hilary swank. i hate how movies about cancer and gangs get lazy and whip a tear jearker out. though, i did take a lot from it (i.e perspective on my easy life that is without any pain when really analyzed) including puffy eyes for the rest of the day.

i made origami swans while watching platoon yesterday.

i'm bringing the guy i get mary jane from cupcakes. they have his name in white frosting with hearts and peace signs. 

i memorized the first paragraph of the declaration of independence yesterday. today, i plan on memorizing the next. 

funny how it feels like i'm having fun for the first time since fifteen.

but jeez, when it's been that long... who remembers?

wait. just wait a minute. 

my fun is lonesome, it's just hard to explain to you; but i know this is the reason my soul knows it's supposed to write.

any day i'll write in a way that will hit you and heal your soul

so my mind

can get a break

american woman

january 2008- july 2008

2. the VOLDERMORT

facebook is probably making me feel more lonely then without it

it's fucked

danger lurks when you wonder what the fuck the point of existence is

  this generation has no answers to this alien life

1. "i want to cut up dead people and see how they die"

i should never have given up my childhood dreams of becoming a pathologist.

such a realist. 

i was going to be a stand up comedian but i think i went past humor in to rapping.

that's what happens when you're a lady in a sea full of whores; where in america

if you are a straight man, you are a pirate.