[yay, i missed dear portia.  this will suck, like most of my posts do, but i'll come back to it later and fill you in on her life and whatnot.  ps, anniversary of the constitution! super tuesday!  mardi gras!  two days after my birthday!  good day.]

One year since I walked that stage triumphantly, diploma in hand.  Fifth to last.  Cousin in front of me.  Smiles, cameras.  Then, I felt like a star.  Like I meant something to everyone sitting in that audience.  They roared when he called my name.  Ex-boyfriends and hating bitches booed.  Camille's platinum blonde head was out of sight, but Penny, rearing her head to give me a thumbs up, was glowing.

I still live vicariously through that day.  Provided, the Pasadena Recovery Center does wonders for young junkies- look at me!  Portia Weston, the rich bitch all nice and clean now.  Getting clean means never having to say you're sorry.  That's how the saying goes, right?

No?  Oops.

Anyways, I'm in LA, doing a little choreography work but for the most part dancing with a new ballet company.  I know what you're going to say; California ballet is complete shit (and I completely agree) but it's only a matter of time until I find a nice place in New York to get better work.  Mommy and Daddy still pay for baby Portia.

[i know i posted not too long ago for her, but i figured it's pretty important 'cause it has to do with her graduation and whatnot.  thanks guys.  as always, italics and strikes are private.]

"Portia Weston."  The crowd cheered.  I looked ahead to my smiling cousin directly ahead of me in line, hugging the headmaster.  I smiled back.  One glance out to the masses-  I could barely make out my mother's blond head adorned with a black leather Chanel headband.  Dad on her left, wearing his signature blue jacket with dockers on.  How proud!

I didn't bother to see if Camille was there.  She'd be too depressed to come.  Into my grip slipped the diploma.  I gave Feeny a firm handshake and a nice "thank you sir."  He nodded.  Feeny never liked me.

--

So this is it, huh?  This is graduated life?  Is it as anticlimactic as getting clean getting a piece of paper and leaving?  I suppose so.

You'll be seeing a lot less of the infamous Portia Weston.  Los Angeles, here I come- and I'm not taking any prisoners.

[none of my characters are really this well-versed.  my, that sounds a bit cocky.  i suppose the narrations (aside from savannah's) will be more thoughts, the things they want to say and/or write but never could.  thanks.  also, next year, EVERYONE NEEDS TO GO TO BONNAROO!  best two days of my lifeeee.]

i'm going to miss you when you're gone,

the imagery all full of wolves and trees and tin, breathing of west texas,
cool wood and the sun beating down upon our necks.
we sow and reap in the garden of the gods,
where we lay our white carpet down among the rocks and brooms,
where we lay our white bodies down among the strewn flowers.

he said, "i imagine what i would say at your funeral.
with that collar buttoned too high, covering the truth of the mishap.
i just want to shed light on your bare heart."

we will break our bodies like bread over these rocks
with the smell of vaseline and gasoline pouring from our pores.
i was tired of this constant grinding of metal on metal,
of the silent and white hospital room with 50 iron beds all aligned perfectly.
she steps out in crisp and starched uniform, and you raise your eyes finally to her,
for she brings you a novel and life on a plastic tray.


run does our skin, sifting over boulders,
shoulders burnt from the much too near sun.

--

hello, my name is portia weston and i am pretty dumb.

[more or less another dream that she's had.]

oh, one day, i will conquer this world with you.
not with armies, but hordes of musicians.
only playing organs.
the streets lined with organs --
and not small ones,
but huge, towering, lumbering mammoths
yet elegant, curved, blonde timber
a mix of metal and tree
their largest pipes taller than redwoods;
not for my sake (shocking!)
i just need an excuse to rattle the heavens
thundering with the chords and driving lines and layers of bach.

and that last chord
the shift from C minor to C major
will break the bones of angels.

----

Um, someone needs to steal the answers to Mr. Socolovsky's next trig test.  Alright?  Alright.  You should probably also know that my hair color is kind of up in the air at the moment.  I'm going through a phase where blonde is just yuck to look at.  Who knows... maybe by the next time I take a shit I'll want it back to blonde.  We'll see.