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I've got my black-eyed peas on like a good southern girl filling the house with a familiar smell. I've not so much resolved to do anything, but have made myself resolute on a few key issues. I feel like so much time has slipped through my fingers without so much as my notice of it. I'd like to recount these things, but can't remember details. Only broad brush strokes of images. Ideas, people, places, things….all of them like a kaleidoscopic blur. I don't want so much to go forward determined to record details. I only want to be more cognizant.
One thing that I discovered through you is how intoxicating words can be for me. You really had me going there. But, honestly, you didn't live up to it. I really am totally for self-interests, you and I both know that. But, you are one fucked up individual. And you know what really makes pisses me off? I can imagine just how you are spinning this in your own mind, you are tragic brooding Heathcliff wannabe. I wanted nothing from you, except affection. You silly silly boy. It would have been the deal of your lifetime. Just leave me be.
Do you want to know what I think? I think love is a ridiculous self-indulgent myth. It is the motivation behind so many irrational behaviours. When I say love, I mean that "love" that we are all convinced, somehow, is attainable with someone else. You know, that total submergence of self and complete fulfillment through a relationship with another. Think about it, do you really want that kind of dependence? Because that is what you are looking for, something you feel you can't provide for yourself. That's not what I want. So why do I still secretly yearn for it?
The tightness radiates down through my shoulders and up through my forehead. I lost all semblance of sense early in the night. It was one of those moments that built on itself, until suddenly I was no longer quite myself. That perilous moment, when you decide to have just one more. It makes you think ridiculous things, which is not necessarily a bad thing so long as you can keep your mouth shut and keep ridiculous thoughts as only thoughts. In the morning you'll wake up and be left with nothing but the ache in your head like a bruise.
So, there you've gone. Upstairs like a good boy. I'd have kissed you, you know. You are silly that way. Yeah, you are "good" friends. You were mine first. Friend that is. Now we are older and wiser and you have become way too serious about it all. I almost, just almost leaned over and planted a kiss square on your lips. But, I knew you'd only get awkward and strange… pzxregardless that it's happened between us many times. You two are friends now and it just isn't right. What ever. You know... all of sudden, you just aren't that attractive anymore.
"Don't confuse pressure with pain." That's what he said to me. The dentist, that is, as he attempted to pry out some stubborn teeth. I wanted to demonstrate the difference between pressure and pain to him, using a death grip on his testicles as an example that sometimes pressure is pain. When does pressure stop being pressure, stop being just added weight or additional force on top of the day to day gravitational pull of the earth, and become pain? Is it when it causes bones to splinter? Hearts to break? I believe it to be a fine line indeed.
So, I was lying on the floor next to him, trying to comfort him with my silence and presence alone. My heart broke for him. I could do nothing but stroke him gently now and then. As I lay there I started thinking of the space under my bed. Suddenly I was five again, and all I could think is that something was going to reach out and grab my leg. I tried to refocus on my job as comforter. No avail. I had to quickly jump up on top of my bed and pull my covers over my head.
"This water tastes like nothing!" That's what he had to say about the bottled water he held in his hand. "Of course it tastes like nothing, water doesn't taste like anything," is what I thought. So I grabbed a bottle for myself and took a sip. He was right. I felt coolness in my mouth, but other than that it didn't taste like water. It tasted like nothing. It was without substance. Which forced me to confront the fact that water did indeed have a unique "water-like" taste. Which sort of fundamentally changed the way I thought of the world.
I walked outside, onto the back deck, this morning with my cup of coffee. He was telling me something about leveling the dirt and grass, but I wasn't really paying much attention. What I was doing was feeling the soft warm weight of the air on my skin. It felt like an only vaguely remembered dream. The sort of dream you don't remember at all, the sort you only remember the essence of. I remarked that it felt like spring already. That it felt like a new beginning. He asked me if I was drunk this early in the morning.
If there is one thing in the world that really really gets to me, it's my eyes hurting. They hurt a lot. They hurt in a tired sort of way. They are tired of having to see things. I'd go so far as to say that it's symbolic about how I feel about the world. I'm tired of looking at it. But, we both know that would just be over-dramatic. When you wake up with your eyes feeling tired, the truth is, you feel over-dramatic about everything. It makes me feel old. And the symbolic allusions make me feel jaded.
Somewhere along the way someone told us that it wasn't enough, and for some reason we believed them. We believe them still. Higher, faster, longer, farther… no matter what, it is never enough. We finish one thing without even acknowledging it, because we are looking forward at the next milestone. That is partly to do with the fact that we have been given no tools to grasp the essence of satisfaction. "I can't get no satisfaction." And then we wonder why it's all so empty and meaningless. It's worse than a drug, because there is no treatment for constant yearning.
Every morning I drive to work along a wooded road. It is a carefully planned wooded road, complete with picture perfect wooded median and man-made lake (a giant "water feature"). I really like the four lane divided bridge over the water. But, I am unperturbed by the fact that it has all been planned. Though I secretly think that things that are wild and "natural" are somehow more beautiful, the truth is that planned natural beauty is really just as nice as spontaneous natural beauty. Why is that we believe, in our heart of hearts, that "natural" somehow bests constructed?
The tightness: not so much in my shoulders as around them. Not so much my shoulder blades as it is the cramping muscles that cover the bones. Not so much my collarbones as the taut flesh stretched across them. Always. Sometimes it travels up the sides of my neck and comes to roost somewhere above an eye. Sometimes it feels as one good stretch would help. Sometimes I find my shoulders bunched up somewhere near my ears, or my eyes involuntarily closing for a few moments while I try to concentrate on making that which is contracted and cramped relax.
I'm uninspired. Utterly. Worn out. Used up. Dried out. Ambiguously ambivalent. Disconsolately dejected. Gone. Away with the fairies. Disappeared into the ether. Otherwise preoccupied.
I don't want to talk about this or anything else with you or anyone else.
I want to be completely inwardly visceral. I want to be exterior from everything else.
I want it all to stop now, for just a while.
I want to no longer observe; I no longer have interest in myself or anyone else.
Conversation; dialogue; discussion … I want none of it.
My throat is closing in protest. Everything is ridiculously redundant.
You were almost something, but really weren't anything at all. Perhaps it is better to say you could have been something, but you weren't. You were a passing glance. You were the road not taken. You were a momentary lapse of reason. You didn't even make yourself available as part of a multiple-choice answer. You were a feeling of me being in my own body. You had a momentary pass to my inside. You had a moment's listening post into the internal monologue. You were a moment that felt like a present moment. But, you weren't anything in the end.
Here's a conundrum: How is it that we can understand something intellectually, but our bodies / hearts / souls (what ever) refuse to comprehend the very same thing? It's the same as knowing the right thing to do, and yet being compelled to do the wrong thing.
How can you thoroughly think something out, and decide to "do the right thing" and then suffer/mourn for not actually doing that which you really want to do. Conversely, why is it that when you decide to not do the right thing, and do what you really really want you end up feeling pretty shit about it?
I dreamt of herons. There are many using this area for their winter home, and I often see them stretched out in graceful flight or standing in the shallows in my travels. I love to see them flying, flapping their wings so slowly and lazily. What I don't like to see are the buzzards circling high over a stand of trees. I hate to be reminded that somewhere in those trees a little animal died, and probably died alone. I almost feel compelled to cross myself like my maids taught me to do as a child when ambulances passed by.
Sometimes it surprises me, to look down and catch a glimpse of bare feet or the lines of my hands. I think to myself, what is this? Who is this? I forget that I carry myself around in this body and for all the years we've spent together, it is hard to associate this as me. It sounds altogether strange, and I'm sure psychoanalysts would imply some sort of disturbance with my disassociation. Instinctually, the opposite is true for me… that we would find it strange that we associate first with the physical instead of that which the physical transports.
In a blink it's six years gone. I keep forgetting it is 2003, not 2002. Somehow I lost count. It seems I've lost my ability to keep track of how to pin myself chronologically on these pages of life. I wake up and it's next year. All that's happened is as vague and archetypical as a dream. But, I see the lines on my faces and scraps of words totted up here and there and these are markers that prove I was there. Like a photo of you in front of a landmark, seeming proof that you were indeed there.
I can't tell you how sick I am of being sick. It has been all consuming for days now. It's the wracking cough that is worst of all. It exhausts me and keeps me from sleeping. It's self-compounding, like interest. I'm sick of being sick. It has interfered with me for days now. I no longer have tolerance for any other disturbances because all of my energy is consumed by the incessant coughing. It amazes me how quickly you forget what it is like to not be sick. If feels like I've always been sick. I am sick of it.
I like the free fresh wind in my hair, and life without care. If only it were so easy.
I like the theatre as well, doesn't that count for something? And, though I've never played crap games, I'm sure I wouldn't like to play it with barons and earls. Waiting for dinner ‘til eight? Not unless you want me to go in hypoglycemic type shock. One thing you can be sure of though, is that I don't bother with people I'd hate. If only I could grasp that elusive tramp-like state of being, maybe I'd be ok with being broke.
As for me, without words I'm lost. Not the actually speaking of the words, but the having of words with which to describe to myself that which is.
For me, everything exists compartmentalized and unable to communicate with the others. It is words and language that bridge this divide. Unless I have words, I have no way to synthesize a meaningful context in which to understand anything at all.
It is those moments that I find myself wordless that are the most distressing, because without words I am and the entire world around me is starkly and utterly in pieces.
It struck me as I was watching the old "Wuthering Heights" last night that the characters were really a sad sorry lot. Firstly, Cathy: what a knob. Wasn't she such an asshole? And then Heathcliff … he needed to let it go and move on. What a colossal waste and destruction of people's lives. Meanwhile, I remember reading it and thinking "how romantic to be loved like that." And even though on the one hand, I really think that that kind of consuming obsession is really not a good thing, secretly I would love to have something like that. Bollocks.
29 things that have been pivotal:
2. Pollito - song
3. Scary Icons
7. Texas Summers
8. Chlorine and the smell of hot concrete
9. melody fragments
10. hammock naps
12. report cards
14. New Orleans
15. books, always books
17. vampires under the bed
19. ocean smell on the afternoon breeze
20. gum trees
21. rainy dirt
22. Airports / transit lounges
23. Sentimental bits
24. Tall athletic men
26. Doglets (beags)
27. Red wine
28. Balcony chats
29. Nomadic friends
For once, I'm not the hungover one. Usually I'm the chastised not the chastiser? I'm really not into the whole birthday and "me me me and my special day" thing, but I must say it was nice to be wished a happy birthday yesterday. Living in the suburbs has it's good and bad points. One of the good and bad points is that you know your neighbours. On days like birthdays, it's quite nice. On days when you are hungover, (like the D), it isn't quite as nice as it is hard to be social when you want to die.
For all our clamoring for connection and interaction, there is much to be said for the beauty and joy of being separate. That is, sometimes we forget to stop for just a moment and enjoy the fact that we stand alone. It is a singular existence when it comes right down to it. Our experience belongs to no one but us. We've been intoxicated by the myth that it is unacceptable to spend even one moment of our lives enjoying being alone. Being alive is nicest when you are alone and sharing your aloneness with someone else. Together but separate.
I live in a beige cubicle. I should at least be thankful for three-quarter walls, I guess. I've often thought that I'll get kooky and recover the beige interior with sheets of bright paint-splashed paper, but much like many of my other great ideas this thought just languishes and goes nowhere. I believe I have artiness in me, but no capacity to produce. I have a few familiar things around…books, cds, my worry dolls, antibacterial hand goop, a miniature rugby ball, and pictures. Honestly, though, they seem to fade into a general beigeness that seems to invade my very soul.
Why is it not ok, in a social setting, to have a dissenting opinion? Especially if someone is "upset" or "troubled?" Why is it uncouth to say to someone that they really need to reexamine themselves to look for a solution, rather than going for a "quick fix?" A woman comes in to the room, crying because she and her husband had a fight that escalated to threats of divorce. Why? She refused to let his children come live with them. My response? She's the problem. Everyone else's response? Rush to hug, comfort and tell her he's a bastard. Feh.
If I know anything, I know this: there is nothing better than volunteering your TIME to a cause you really believe in. When you actually invest your time to something that is matters to you, you get immediate positive feedback about your personal impact. I'd like to sit here and think that I do this self-lessly but that would be a lie. I do this because it makes ME feel good. That feeling is better than any drug I've ever known, the feeling that I've made a positive difference, the feeling that I actually matter at least on some level.
I find your continual "poor me, I'm a schmuck and people need to pet me" attitude boring and tired. No one cares that you feel life has dealt you a bad hand. From what I can tell you have your health, so stop it with the whining and the "life is soooooo haaaaard" bullshit. Strap your nuts on, get off the couch, take a shower and get a fucking grip on yourself. Guess what? We all have bad days, we all fuck up, and we all have down times. You are not as special as you think. So shut up.
This is the weekend. This is it. It is. No, I'm telling you right now, this very second that this is the weekend that I will get all those things that I've been meaning to do done. I will paint the trim in that bathroom. So help me, I will. I will put away strategic piles of washed clothing. I will organize. I will rearrange. I will banish dust. I will. I will not let the weekend slip away from me in its usual manner. I will be that organized girl that I always thought I'd grow up to be.
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