tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47654927595747552262024-03-05T08:20:14.034-05:00excerpts and side notesBailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-84698468068106168462010-08-18T14:59:00.002-04:002011-08-29T19:54:25.067-04:00Okay, so...<div>I moved. </div><div><a href="http://bailiegrossman.tumblr.com/">http://bailiegrossman.tumblr.com/</a></div><div>
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<br /></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-86874860569483194632010-08-14T23:43:00.001-04:002010-08-14T23:46:38.976-04:00Oh I know, it goes on, it gets old<i>But for now we're young, we smell good, we're alone</i>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-2390977122232240112010-08-12T15:44:00.002-04:002010-08-12T15:50:40.790-04:00<div><object width="400" height="225"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=11730491&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=1&color=&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=11730491&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=1&color=&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/11730491">The Naked And Famous - Young Blood</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/tnafofficial">The Naked And Famous</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Well, my friend showed me this a week or so ago.... I fell in love with it for several obvious reasons.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>The bittersweet between my teeth</i></div><div><i>Trying to find the in-betweens</i></div><div><i>Fall back in love eventually</i></div><div><i>Yeah yeah yeah yeah</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Just makes me feel so darn good.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-31873329016558078362010-08-12T04:50:00.008-04:002010-08-12T15:51:34.074-04:00____________________<i>Oscillate </i>is not the word- it just keeps running through my head.<div><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.....So maybe it's the title..</div><div><br /></div><div>[to vary between differing beliefs, opinions, conditions, etc. : "He oscillates between elation and despair.]</div><div><br /></div><div>Sure. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span> <b>Oscillate.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I turned 18. Though it felt like SUCH a long day, when it was over I noticed it really just came and went. And that- selfish or not- I didn't want it to be gone. I only <b><i>wish</i></b>ed I <b><i>could</i></b>'ve truly <b><i>grasp</i></b>ed how much people <b><i>love</i></b>d me. </div><div>I wanted to feel alive. Whatever that means. I resorted to swimming with my friends in the dark around 1 am. I wanted to float on my back, let the water fill my eardrums, and search the sky for shooting stars. I imagined all of us doing that in unison. It was beautiful, but wasn't fitting. Instead we made up names for silly jumps into the pool and cracked each other up. Talked about lucid dreaming and things much more trivial. </div><div>I laid with her underneath the hot shower outside. Legs up, on our backs, facing the stars. Smooth, young, shimmering bodies full of unknown potential. Full of pure love. For one another and countless others- some yet to cross our path. I told her that if I could only wrap words around [it].. then [it] would be heartbreakingly beautiful. Though it would never be documented anywhere other than a place few eyes would ever find. </div><div>I needed to wrap words around it. It's long, but needed to be made immortal through a pen onto paper. Strictly because I may not have realized it until after, but I have never <i>meant </i>something so much in my life. Immortality is the runt of what it ultimately deserves.</div><div>I came inside and spent 3 hours on a kitchen floor. Writing a little story for her, myself, whoever else on some other day. Documenting what deserves much more potential than some two-dimensional has-been tree. </div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-17158718029557989252010-08-11T02:58:00.001-04:002010-08-11T02:59:55.356-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlY-2aLsFq_F1u39manDiVpZ_TL_ov3cXRDkbBgvp0tkkrpnIzxHmgMTT9Dj86j57XqAYkvHZSD4QeUKwmsmTz7VQFDoiDOV4FpJwk_BGjThLEV4hi1R40EmYki1AdSpjWSYAKSJhLiouD/s1600/JimPam.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlY-2aLsFq_F1u39manDiVpZ_TL_ov3cXRDkbBgvp0tkkrpnIzxHmgMTT9Dj86j57XqAYkvHZSD4QeUKwmsmTz7VQFDoiDOV4FpJwk_BGjThLEV4hi1R40EmYki1AdSpjWSYAKSJhLiouD/s400/JimPam.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504043229878667266" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Oh, gracious... ME TOO!!! The first TWO times I watched it.. </div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-81085262683308027752010-08-02T14:33:00.006-04:002010-08-03T00:39:30.109-04:00For several reasons, I needed her to bring this up.<div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Passion is something you really don't miss after it has cooled. It is like looking at an empty bottle on the side of the road and thinking, "Boy, I wish I had a Coke." </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The loves you miss are the ones that go away when they are still warm, even hot, to the touch.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Though I'm not sure whether it makes me feel better or worse.</div><div>Justified- definitely. I know the difference between things I've let go of that were frozen or boiling or comfortably warm. I know what I miss with an ache, don't quite miss at all, and why I feel the way I do about any of it.. even if I can't wrap a sentence around the origin of the feeling. Some things move you so deeply that words couldn't even <i>begin</i> to do it justice. But fear easily triumphs over one-sided justification when change is out of one's control.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Hearts have a way of revealing themselves even when their owner has other, more solidified, plans. </div><div><i>Patience</i></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-82269786921556398952010-07-28T23:39:00.011-04:002010-07-29T23:19:34.582-04:00She is hereeee annnnd nowwww-No matter what any song is truly about- I literally always think it's about MY issues. Even when I know very well it's about something a whole lot more stale or profound. Making it all about me is my way of coping, I suppose. <div>Consider me spoiled.<div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I really did just have a fine little day today. It was cute and full. Work was good. Friends were better. My heart felt oddly warm. Really the only downer was that Sonny's was "out of lemons."</div><div><br /></div><div>Though no matter how warm or cold the day, the same thoughts roll over and over and over in my head. All. Day. Long. To the point that I look up towards heaven and shrug my shoulders with a little chuckle. Hoping He'll understand that I'm sorry for taking up so much time with <i>this</i>... and that I know I'm trivial. And that if You want me to quit it.. to chill the heck out.. then please, I'm game with that.</div><div>And then I reaffirm my steady, straight-forward stare and begin the same thought process over again. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's pathetic, I know. And as of now, I can't help myself. So I'll sing those songs at the top of my lungs. Convincing myself that they were tailor made by someone's heart that's just like mine, for me, at this very moment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even if it's about a band breaking up.. It's just my song, okay. & I love it.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.myspace.com/fun/music/albums/aim-and-ignite-13539498"><br /></a></div><div><a href="http://www.myspace.com/fun/music/albums/aim-and-ignite-13539498">http://www.myspace.com/fun/music/albums/aim-and-ignite-13539498</a></div><div>(Listen to this entire album. It's my life. More importantly, it's VERY good.)</div><div><br /></div></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-18990123412877846712010-07-22T21:23:00.002-04:002010-07-29T23:17:24.358-04:00<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz03u_RsIo3rYM5fzQBuKYTThFIhmW-EHPffQrurlSWkQorgV0YYW2XeBO5gKtviCL8lnp29P5PyNTiae7CXpX2u29wwDyIQfhvDgIXfVl6dZEzt70lHKq1cx92JguESIdf71rXqU7ITQ0/s1600/yordandballs+copy+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz03u_RsIo3rYM5fzQBuKYTThFIhmW-EHPffQrurlSWkQorgV0YYW2XeBO5gKtviCL8lnp29P5PyNTiae7CXpX2u29wwDyIQfhvDgIXfVl6dZEzt70lHKq1cx92JguESIdf71rXqU7ITQ0/s400/yordandballs+copy+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496906985953137602" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">I love her so SO much.</div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-39519929989760734612010-07-21T18:40:00.002-04:002010-07-21T18:43:04.680-04:00<div>Um, if only I could accurately portray JUST how much I love them. For real, though..</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9U-Ul5qnLeQ&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9U-Ul5qnLeQ&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="480" height="295" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div>Or just him, either way. </div><div><br /></div><div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cNCQWkVtiZ0&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cNCQWkVtiZ0&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-27130103550633235972010-07-21T17:43:00.002-04:002010-07-21T17:50:19.364-04:00<b><i>22. That year I wore my father's sweater for forty-two days straight</i></b><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><i>On the twelfth day I passed Sharon Newman and her friends in the hall. "WHAT'S UP WITH THAT DISGUSTING SWEATER?" she said. Go eat some hemlock, I thought, and decided to wear Dad's sweater for the rest of my life. I made it almost to the end of the school year. It was alpaca wool, and by the middle of May it was unbearable. My mother thought it was belated grieving. But I wasn't trying to set any records. I just liked the way it felt. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I admire -maybe even envy- this kind of confidence.</div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-22452955939868730842010-07-15T12:31:00.006-04:002010-07-15T13:19:42.333-04:00I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw, I'm in the prime of my life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgbRdfSICl7yUMJZbF70fWumeR7Y_ulfQIBj3NTStxQMVUvIKQhcCG-9VjnZkyajShxgoi62NluBJMWpPyhlmd7n7PBwiZULY4LWqYW2zlX9y00V4LHpfgwIn0Q9Wb3E0GnXX6bQxdwB3/s1600/Picture+11.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgbRdfSICl7yUMJZbF70fWumeR7Y_ulfQIBj3NTStxQMVUvIKQhcCG-9VjnZkyajShxgoi62NluBJMWpPyhlmd7n7PBwiZULY4LWqYW2zlX9y00V4LHpfgwIn0Q9Wb3E0GnXX6bQxdwB3/s320/Picture+11.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494179337111874706" /></a><div>I think about this kind of thing a lot when I'm driving. Or maybe I just think about it a lot in general. Though, driving alone usually does see the worst and best of me-</div><div><br /></div><div><i>At times I believed the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one in the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat would be empty. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Admittedly, there have been countless times where I sat alone in my bed, or someone else's floor, in the middle of the night (or very early morning- whichever you prefer) writing at the speed of light. Surprised that my messy jotting could even keep up with my trail of thought. Page after page, confession after confession, spilling out of my hand so quickly and ultimately unrelenting. All the while thinking that <i>I can't stop because somehow this is keeping me sane and grounded. </i>This <i>mess</i> of emotional excess and spiritual confession is what's holding me together at 3:13 am. Like if I stopped, all I'd have left is a silent bedroom and sleep hovering over me, waiting patiently, while I lie there drained, silent, emotionless, and rebellious against it's plea.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm young. And I know better than this. And though somehow I've managed to have faith in things unseen and hope which is the substance of those things, when I think logically about my future all I see is a wall. Not in a depressing way, but in a baffling sense.. Like, though I feel young and alive and that the world is probably right here at my fingertips, I still feel like I've lived so much thus far. And when I think of being sixty years old, my life so full <i>now</i> after nearly eighteen years of life, how thick and heavy will my book be then? You won't even be able to lift that thing! The fuzzy, dreamy part of me is so excited to cherish it, but a portion of me - in the practical sense- can't comprehend what that could possibly be like. To have such a life of mine to look back on. That in reality, I am <i>so </i>young - I have only lived the first few, scatterbrained pages of my novel.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?</b></span></i></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-34376276172266342932010-07-07T00:20:00.016-04:002010-07-15T13:25:36.738-04:00"It's a business lie. It's different from a life lie."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuJYZVl71cyug9R6PPg857XutNzebu7IU2BoshG089g2LzDG8ZrGdNWDgNFkB5zQ790K0PyQJHnwLilNHP6mYE46QnWzUkJwDPTsvUBYuT-VEvd7OVIphKl2ss8pr7RoBco42wv-FutaH/s1600/change.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuJYZVl71cyug9R6PPg857XutNzebu7IU2BoshG089g2LzDG8ZrGdNWDgNFkB5zQ790K0PyQJHnwLilNHP6mYE46QnWzUkJwDPTsvUBYuT-VEvd7OVIphKl2ss8pr7RoBco42wv-FutaH/s320/change.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491041895182500002" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>Alright, well... last week my whole life plan changed within an hour.Sure it was a little bit of a let down, but ultimately I just feel<i> okay. </i>Like a big mess was cleaned up with a "No." and some teary eyes in a school office. So I relayed the news to my dad of every door I've ever had in mind completely closing.. but that I think I've found a cracked window. & that I'm gonna climb out that window unless it shuts and maybe some vent opens up or something. Coupled with some down-to-earth wisdom(including a few choice words to <i>spice </i>it up a bit), he opened my blinds and curtains and starting plotting out how to rearrange or paint my room, or both .. because acording to him, and maybe to me too, "I need some kind of drastic change." It was precious, to say the least. So this secret over here really caught my eye.</div><div>& maybe I just will paint my room.. or something like that.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On a separate note, tonight I watched the movie <i>Sunshine Cleaning</i> with Amy Adams and Emily Blunt. Whether it's worthy of being written about or not- something in me kind of loved it.. Though a few parts were left unresolved and ultimately it was a pretty mediocre film, it really tugged on my heart. It gave me heavy boots & almost had me in tears a couple times, but throughout the whole thing I kept remembering how I truly do believe- absolutely and without a doubt- that there is the most beauty & strength in flaws and disfunction. And that a life that's handled roughly is so, so incredibly beautiful at it's high points.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it's because when you're dealt unpleasant cards, the happy one means a little bit more to you. Shines a whole lot brighter because it was so longed for and you remember the other older, wrinkly cards that made you want it so badly. And in turn, <i>you</i> shine some kind of beautifully radiant light all over everyone around you.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwJbgSwi5ciN8R1WLr8chrOmLR35fP31JuSav5Ri4t8djFXx9ZG7GhdiDPqyOLd4diCayrIlvzY4aoQKUENFAoYGIp1kfsp792MMS62Ww4sbvIcXMVFQahiKCby5IB4AnUVman0Y2ZA1y/s320/sunshine_image1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492136529532845170" /></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-5149105380237903132010-06-30T01:49:00.002-04:002010-06-30T01:53:17.071-04:00<i>If only any of it were true. I mean we'd all be so lucky to wind up a punching bag and still find our crates full of Birds of Paradise.</i><div><i>No such luck with this crate.</i></div><div><i>Let the cold water run.</i></div><div><i>It's gotta warm up eventually.</i></div><div><i>Right?</i></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-58937858693216013312010-06-25T00:15:00.004-04:002010-07-15T13:28:15.569-04:00I haven't heard a thing you've said in at least a couple hundred days<i><div><i>What'd you say?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>I could feel a hot one taking me down</i><div><i>for a moment I could feel the force</i></div><div><i>Veiny to the point of tears</i></div><div><i>And you were holding on to make a point</i></div><div><i>What's the point?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Enough is never quite enough</i></div><div><i>What's enough?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Though beautifully written, these words struck such an unpleasant chord in me tonight. When I heard them it was like I had two immediate choices- believe that being numb is acceptable and drag myself forward, or believe in what is embedded in my bones.</div><div><br /></div><div>I believe in love.</div><div>In all that love has to offer and all that it means and in all that it sacrifices and in all the joy and lessons it brings.</div><div>I believe it's beautifully crafted and that it's a choice and that since it's a choice, you fight for it. Maybe even simply because you chose it. It's irrational. Terrifying. Gorgeous. Dangerous. Freeing. </div><div>It's longed for, ached over, and confusing.</div><div>But you <i>choose</i> it. </div><div>That ability alone is beautiful.. & tricky.</div><div><br /></div><div>& so much brighter than gloomy, gray numbness.</div><div>I feel like I've always tended a little more towards the brighter side of things anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm pretty much positive that this songs meaning is nowhere near as simple as what I chose to relate it to tonight in my car. But that's the thing about words- you can use them however you'd like. Tonight I made them directly relatable.</div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-21664177351032966772010-06-24T03:01:00.002-04:002010-06-24T03:02:32.709-04:00<i>Whose side are you on</i><div><i>What side is this anyway</i></div><div><i>Put down your sword and crown</i></div><div><i>Come lay with me on the ground</i></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-60234734308617877902010-06-24T01:37:00.005-04:002010-06-24T02:17:48.348-04:00#datclosetcrewI guess I forgot what it's like to make new friends?<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span><div><br /></div><div>Which in itself is odd to me and shows, clearly, that circumstances really have changed me. But what I mean is.. I've latched on so tightly and intimately to my close friends, (because I needed to) but I guess in the process I haven't let much of anything new in. Until I started my new job.</div><div><br /></div><div>At first the job was just exciting cause we're all the same age and have the same humor and it was just.. fun. But then I started spilling my beans while tagging.. and listening to little and big stories about little and big problems while running clothes here and there. And then going to eat, or staying late, and getting to see who everyone really is when they're on and off the clock.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then it turned into exchanging numbers, adding Facebooks, stalking blogs, this that and the other. And if I'm being honest, somehow it initially baffled me. Like I literally didn't know how to make new friends.. & by "friends" I mean the kind of people that you have some kind of deeper connection with. Something of substance. The things "in common" that really matter. The kind of "friends" that aren't your acquaintances on social networking or another smile-and-wave in the mall, but the ones that you're going to be standing in their kitchen one day, or seeing their dad in his pj's. I haven't been in a new situation like that in a while..</div><div><br /></div><div>Well anyways, I say all this to say that tonight a few members of the closet crew went out for some Sonny's after we all got off at 9. We ate while talking & listening to troubles and drama. Then moved to the parking lot talking about religion and 2012 and relationships. Moved from one truck bed to another, watched the employees leave and the lights flicker out. Ended up with three girls in a tiny truck bed spilling stories, heavy hearts, and pure honestly in a parking lot until midnight. (We had mace, cell phones, and a bat I think.. don't worry.) But we were being so vulerable. So trusting with such personal issues. In a sense, we're kind of strangers to one another.. we're still getting to know each other's quirks, but we were spilling deep, deep unknown and untouched parts of the soul in a truck bed outside of Sonny's. </div><div>It was nothing short of the word beautiful. </div><div>..& I'm beginning to get very, very attached to this part time job..</div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-9717891483530223552010-06-21T03:50:00.002-04:002010-06-21T03:58:33.059-04:00<i>Ah, Brooklyn Brooklyn, take me in</i><div><i>Are you aware the shape I'm in</i></div><div><i>My hands they shake my head it spins<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre">A</span>h, Brooklyn Brooklyn, take me in</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Load the car and write the note</i></div><div><i>Grab your bag and grab your coat</i></div><div><i>Tell the ones that need to know</i></div><div><i>We are headed north</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>One foot in and one foot back</i></div><div><i>But it don't pay to live like that</i></div><div><i>So I cut the ties and I jumped the tracks</i></div><div><i>For never to return</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Three words that became hard to say</i></div><div><i>I and love and you</i></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-24163707277035110202010-06-11T02:08:00.003-04:002010-06-11T02:11:16.857-04:00<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"... in dreams and in love there are no impossibilities.."</span></i>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-53269345419785869252010-06-11T02:00:00.005-04:002010-06-11T02:19:40.630-04:00Carry onIn a car full of girls with a little too much stress and let downs weighing down shoulders, it's okay to be cheesy. When it comes down to it- this song has and always will be just <i>good.</i> Open the windows and turn it up. It's okay.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2 AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake,<br />"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?,<br />I don't love him. Winter just wasn't my season"<br />Yeah we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes<br />Like they have any right at all to criticize,<br />Hypocrites. You're all here for the very same reason<br /><br />'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable<br />And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table<br />No one can find the rewind button, girl.<br />So cradle your head in your hands<br />And breathe... just breathe,<br />Oh breathe, just breathe<br /><br />May he turned 21 on the base at Fort Bliss<br />"Just a day" he said down to the flask in his fist,<br />"Ain't been sober, since maybe October of last year."<br />Here in town you can tell he's been down for a while,<br />But, my God, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles,<br />Wanna hold him. Maybe I'll just sing about it.<br /><br />Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,<br />And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.<br />No one can find the rewind button, boys,<br />So cradle your head in your hands,<br />And breathe... just breathe,<br />Oh breathe, just breathe<br /><br />There's a light at each end of this tunnel,<br />You shout 'cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out<br />And these mistakes you've made, you'll just make them again<br />If you only try turning around.<br /><br />2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song<br />If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,<br />Threatening the life it belongs to<br />And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd<br />Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud<br />And I know that you'll use them, however you want to<br /><br />But you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,<br />And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table<br />No one can find the rewind button now<br />Sing it if you understand.<br />and breathe, just breathe<br />woah breathe, just breathe,<br />Oh breathe, just breathe,<br />Oh breathe, just breathe. </span></i></span></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-53933246027555205832010-05-09T21:42:00.004-04:002010-05-09T22:36:54.396-04:00It seems that all my bridges have been burned, but you say that's exactly how this grace thing works.<div>Today my grandma gave me like, four HUGE photo albums for me to go through because I needed some pictures of my little self. I went through each and every one.. not failing to recognize how terrible the photographer was because about 90% of them were 20 feet away and slightly blurry. Anyway, what I'm getting at is that when I reached the second to last page of the last album, I noticed that I have never changed.. Well, I don't wear my bikini all day everyday, but that's about it. My arms are flailed, my face is scrunched, my smile is fake and exaggerated, I had put golf balls in my bathing suit top, I'm doing some ridiculously curled pose 'cause I'm trying to be cute or something. Haven't changed. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div><i><br /></i></div><div>A little update:</div><div>I graduate in less than a month. ( AHHHHHH!!!)</div><div>I'm moving out in July with two of my best friends. Here's a sample of just how cute it'll be:</div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjifg9FjX1unJFQ7Sr8UROGkYVKLzGnFR5SC6TQEwQLw4wzQKNZEvGTaL363yKbmk-DzQOu5F7q-G0skuBUBjDZ8wYtu8BKLbPNMY_WhtmIlWf4-HW064TpgfskgTzktV64zt5q0_QO87ur/s320/Photo+259.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469452485201404578" /> </div><div>... And we have a floral print couch that I'll get to come home to every day!</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a job! And a fun one at that. It really just fits for right now. </div><div><br /></div><div>With school wrapping up and July gaining on me, I've subconsciously begun to value and cherish things much, much more. Such as.. Up until recently I've constantly been "go go go" and never home, but now I just want to be home all the time and be in my bed every night cause I can't bring it with me due to spacing issues. (That saddens me more than anything, really.) And I can really see it in my step-dad, too. He loves me a little more that usual. He's gonna miss me and all my wild antics. And how I always miss curfew and spill everything in the kitchen and rarely clean my car.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I haven't fully grasped that with all my changes this summer, other people will be changing a bit too. Rumor has it that nearly everyone is moving. By "nearly everyone" I mean a few people that I really hold dear. It's safe to say that I don't like to think about it often.. hurts my heart. When it runs across my mind I have to shoot a little prayer out and remind myself that there is a highway and that we all know how to drive. Comfort myself in trying to genuinely understand that it's not the end of the world- Because it's not. It's the beginning of a new, better chapter. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>All these things seem petty, really. Just the beginning of my entering the "real world" phase. Actually, I'm just graduating high school and this is literally just the very beginning of my life. I can't even imagine how soon it'll be when I look back on all this documentation and giggle a little at my naivety. We only view these kinds of things as such a big deal because it's all so new and unknown. And we're so vulnerable and finite. Life continues to go on.. and will continue to get better, and better I'm sure of it. That's one thing I've finally managed to grab ahold of. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've finally let my tunnel vision and lack of acceptance for hope, peace, whole joy, and patience go.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's about time. :)</div><div><br /></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-14816282597960395632010-04-28T23:52:00.004-04:002010-04-28T23:57:51.023-04:00As if the fruits she always offered us were picked from the destroyed branches of our family tree.<i>We believed in our grandmother's cooking more fervently than we believed in God.</i><div><i>...</i></div><div><i>Her culinary prowess was one of our family's primal stories, like the cunning of the grandfather I never met, or the single fight of my parents' marriage. We clung to those stories and depended on them to define us.</i></div><div><i>...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>He responded simply, "Everything is possible again." It was the perfect thing to write, because that was exactly how it felt. We could retell our stories and make them better, more representative or aspirational, or we could choose to tell different stories. The world itself had another chance.</i></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-33806344592326683142010-04-25T15:10:00.004-04:002010-04-25T15:28:02.820-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKimjZNpR0dpoN5Y1XhicYnDqYHaiWAkSSxguiyxL22r0MZ1UGOjn7ovIj3OaS-lM-7pOfyVdr5BjHph5-JabiA8wXIu2C7MzaPtJVm7bw-wBwnpgyH7YQcaVnGxhXjldTPkZNlf0IBLY/s1600/8128_1252446757903_1431545916_30729990_5378418_n.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 203px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKimjZNpR0dpoN5Y1XhicYnDqYHaiWAkSSxguiyxL22r0MZ1UGOjn7ovIj3OaS-lM-7pOfyVdr5BjHph5-JabiA8wXIu2C7MzaPtJVm7bw-wBwnpgyH7YQcaVnGxhXjldTPkZNlf0IBLY/s320/8128_1252446757903_1431545916_30729990_5378418_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464158391512878690" /></a> Been talkin it up forever & we finally made real progress! Mark your calendars, folks- We're set to move out and move in July 9, 2010!Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-22196572959260136502010-03-22T23:31:00.004-04:002010-03-22T23:38:43.654-04:00recreational vehicles and mutual friends<i><div>And through your uneven footsteps you found</div><div>tolerance & cleanliness</div><div>and I found you</div><div><br /></div><div>who's to blame, lack of power</div><div>and I don't mind that you're not here</div><div>who's to blame, the believer</div><div>the eye in the sky is watching</div><div>your every single move</div><div><br /></div>we've both got better things to do</i><div><i>we've both got better things to do</i></div><div><i>we've both got better things to do</i></div><div><i>we've both got better things to do</i></div><div><i>we've both got better things to do</i></div><div><i>we've both got better things to do</i></div><div><i>we've both got better things to do</i></div><div><i>we've both got better things to do</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-88768097565858040362010-03-15T22:02:00.011-04:002010-06-21T04:07:17.720-04:00Ides of March<div>(I think about it all year.. I may as well title something with it. Oh, & happy birthday to one of my dearest friends!)</div><div><br /></div>It's that time in my life where everyone keeps asking me what I'm going to do with myself. Wonder how long it'll last...<div><br /></div><div><i>-community college. not sure how long. english major. it's the only thing I can tolerate going to school for. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>-what, do you wanna be a teacher?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>-I don't know what I wanna be. I don't really "fit" right into something, but I'm sure I'll fall into my niche along the way..</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>-Yeah you'd be a good teacher. </i></div><div>.. or something like that. I usually get an opinion on my choice of subject, or sometimes they choose to relate to my method instead of the study. Always ends with a hopeful smile and a goodluck-pat on the shoulder. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>....(no. the thought of talking all day makes me want to gag. and i don't like those hours.)</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Right now I have out-of-place acid reflux right at the top-back of my throat, waiting for a phone call that I don't even know if I want to answer now that I'm <i>waiting </i>on it, I'm kind of trembling, my hair is only half blowdried, and I'm just trying to be bolder than usual. <br />u g h </div><div><br /></div><div>If I've learned anything this past year it's that I get a lot more nervous than I thought I did. To put it kindly.</div><div>& I'm starting to misuse those commonly misused words.. ...why? I keep wondering if that's a sign that I'm losing my mind or something. (doubtful) Or maybe I'm just looking to label anything a sign... like some unspoken need to categorize or attach myself to something, anything, and let it define me. Perhaps that'd make it easier to describe myself, my reasoning, my motives. </div><div><br /></div><div>Clear communication.</div><div>The right words. </div><div><i>.. gold in settings of silver ..</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>This is all I'm looking for, and all I'm attempting to offer. </div><div>Push & pull, man. Let's work.</div><div><br /></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4765492759574755226.post-29735534703764573672010-03-14T12:47:00.016-04:002010-03-16T21:54:58.216-04:00my my my, my my my, my, my<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;color:#656B6F;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:11px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On occasion I'll take the wrong turn.. sometimes you just need the long way home. I've been known to get a mean caffeine headache. I can sit still; I can be too much. I'm fidgety. I've tiptoed near the line, stood clear of the line, sprinted over the line without looking back. Yet I always crawl back to the side which I belong. Sometimes I don't feel like replying to texts, so I won't. But only sometimes. I've got a few hearts in the palm of my hand, though I would never think twice about messing with them. I hold them, sympathize over them, wonder about them. I hate checking my voicemail- It's too time consuming, text me. I should consider drinking more water, eating less McDonald's, less sweets, maybe sleep more- But hey, I'm young. I can handle it for a little while longer. Of course I miss you; of course you miss me. Not sure why we make this so difficult. I'm solitary, but I'm even more social. I do my best crying, praying, purging on the floors of bathrooms and tubs. I bite my nails. & I hate that I bite my nails. I've been on hundreds of planes, involved in a few fender benders, and one time I rode on a train to Chicago. I'd love to ride on a train again. I like a strong cuss word in calm songs. I'm petrified by spiders and gravely disturbed by vomit. I'm a sucker for lovestories and their soundtracks. I have friends that are family. Families that have seamlessly accepted me as one of their own. I procrastinate. Making plans stresses me out. I don't like the beach.. There are some songs I can't listen to. Some movies I can't watch. I'm sure I'll get over it one day. I find the most beauty, strength, character in flaws and disfunction. I have freckles during summer and no trace of a tan line during winter. My hair tangles too easily and doesn't grow quickly enough. I'm discontent, eager, nervous, at peace. Things fall apart- it's the simple stuff that makes my heart, even my eyes, fill to the brim with thanks.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Bailiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13584466619507142084noreply@blogger.com1