|Thursday, June 9th, 2011|
6:55 pm - What happens when you combine insult etymology...
with faux-deconstructionist pretension.
"'your mom' becomes the empty signifier, wherein everything is laden with a perverse implication - a spoon, a dishtowel, a currency, a whisper -- all fall to the burden of negative meaning; defined less by what they are, and more than by what they are not. No matter how innocent or non-sequitus the subject, the interpretation is hinged upon the subversive connotation of the phrase which precedes it. Thus every item, in conjunction with 'your mom' comes to signify one thing: wanton, lascivious sexual appetite. Correlatively, regardless of the item, your mom is always a whore."
(1 schmack talkin' fool | talk schmack)
|Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010|
When you are all alone in the claustrophobic dark, it starts to feel like everyone else might be dead. That's the motherfuck about insomnia; it makes it so it is you alone with every rustling sound, and every creak and peck, until you ask yourself if it might be true, and everyone might be dead, including you. Of course, the bigger concern is how when you are alone, in the claustrophobic dark, hearing every sound, seeing the back of your eyes, if everyone is dead, then of course you are surrounded by ghosts.
God, I want a smoke.
This seemed like a good idea five minutes ago, when I was shifting blindly down the hall, wearing nothing but a t-shirt. Moving ever so quietly, so as not to wake the dead. Now, with the harsh lights of the monitor glaring in my face, it doesn't really seem like such a good idea, but it doesn't seem like such a bad one, either.
There is something about lying here, on my stomach, illuminated only by the digital transmission, listening to the ghosts and the night sounds, that reminds me just a little bit of me. A different me; a louder me. Maybe a brighter me. Definitely a more reckless and dangerous me. I suppose I usually sleep through her now. Which must be good, I suppose, because being all alone in this claustrophobic dark feels a little like the onset of panic. Like you'll never sleep again, and you'll never see daylight, ever.
How grandly melodramatic, of course, but is amazing how time can rush by so fast and yet seem to stand so second-by-second still. It's like the opposite of how people in a moment of crisis say their lives rush before their eyes, all condensed into one lightening crack of nostalgia. This is the long, drawn-out trip down memory lane, where the headlights don't work, the car keeps breaking down, and you get carjacked by the last motherfucker on earth you ever wanted to see. This is the trip down memory lane that throws you right out the windshield, takes off the top of your head, and leaves you littered with fragments of glass. Oh. No, that was my brother's trip. I wonder what he saw in his lightening crack? Probably the dashboard.
That's what he got for being bright, and reckless, and dangerous.
This is what I get for lying awake and talking to ghosts.
(8 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Tuesday, March 30th, 2010|
7:55 pm - For the lulz
My brother likes to send me incredibly dumb shit and watch me explodify. Observe.
From: My Brother
Sent: Sun, March 28, 2010 7:19:21 PM
My republican friend and I were talking about the health care issue and I said I'm glad it passed. I wish that we didn't have to make everyone get insurance but was sure that our elected officials would make the right choices.He also tried to take me down the religious road but I said that was a road I chose not to travel. So to prove that he is right he sent this to prove his theory. I read it but am not political enough to rebuke it, can you help?
"type "CLOWARD AND PIVEN"in any search engine and read about these two and tell me what you think.try to see the similarities to what is going on in washington."
To: My brother
Sent: Tuesday, March 30, 2010 7:53:19 PM
My highly technical assessment is: "That is fucking retarded."
Seriously, if a 45 year old theory (that has failed in the past) is the best your friend could dredge up, then really it can't be all bad. Grasping at straws much?
If this is all some sort of Machiavellian ploy to force a socialist agenda by exhausting the welfare program, imagine Obama's disappointment when the Congressional Budget Office actually determined that this plan would decrease the national deficit. I can just imagine Obama twiddling his fingers ominously, crying, "Curses, foiled again! I would have got away with it too, if it wasn't for that meddling... uh... me!"
By this reasoning, the free-market capitalists actually did the most work to force a welfare crisis by increasing the disparity between the upper and lower classes to the point of economic collapse, which caused a swell in unemployment rivaling that of the Great Depression. This goes without pointing out the fact increased spending has been successfully used to pull us out of similar economic collapse dating back to the Great Depression (spending on social programs) and more recently, to some degree, by the Patron Saint of 'Publicans, Ronnie Regan (spending on prisons, while cutting social programs.) Oops. I guess I just pointed that out.
Is he really convinced this is some sort of crazed socialist agenda to turn the US into a bunch of commie pinkos? Take a look at a map that shows which countries provide 'socialized medicine' and pay close attention to how many of the industrialized nations provide universal health care, and which ones don't. Actually, here: http://www.blogcdn.com/www.gadling.com/media/2007/07/healthcareworldbig.jpg
How many 'westernized' nations fail to provide some type of universal coverage for its denizens? I will give you a clue: one. The one shaped like the USA.
Oh my god!! Socialized medicine is HORRIBLE. Look at all those countries where people are living in misery due to their socialist values! Europe, right? We all know how much it sucks to be from that swath of earth, what with their croissants and delicious cheeses. And the Danes and the Dutch must be hating life! Wait, they rank highest on the QOL index for THE WORLD? Never mind that then. Well what about the Japanese, that socialist medicine must be reeeeeally holding them back. Too bad they didn't embrace capitalism, right? Then they'd really be progressing above and beyond the majority of the westernized world. Maybe they would have cool electronics by now, or something. Have fun playing with sticks and dirt, troglodytes!
How dare Obama try and force his 'socialist' agenda on us. What's next? Will he try and force us to accept unemployment benefits? Or worse yet, he might try and tell us that all people deserve to learn, and try and pass something permitting public education. The horror... the horror.
Sorry bro. The political theory is not only ludicrous, but it has failed in the past and bears no resemblance to "what is going on in washington." This is some Glen Beck bullshit, is what it is. When you did a search for Cloward-Piven, did you notice how much conspiratorial right-wing nutbag bullshit it brought up? One of the first things I tell my high school students is: consider the source. I couldn't find a single source with a reputable dissection of the theory, although I did find several that were rife with seeming contradictions, and I also found a lot of people who are probably living in shacks in Appalachia right now, polishing their rifles and preparing for the South the rise again. These are the same people who are still screaming for the birth certificate. Did you happen to catch that part of their hatred of the Cloward-Piven agenda is that it will further 'voters rights.' God forbid we make it easier for the working class and poor to vote. That would be as inexcusable as the 'living wages' that the failed counter-revolution supported. I'm not saying I support the Cloward-Piven theory, but I think that anyone who can read between the lines sees the racist, classist undertones in the hysteria surrounding it. They aren't protecting your rights, they are protecting their investment.
Love you bro! Let me know if you need anything else.
P.S. Liam just said I am taking it all wrong. That part where he says, 'try to see the similarities to what is going on in washington,' clearly means "TRY to see the similarities." You know, like "TRY to find a better burger!" Try really, really hard. Like, squint and turn your head, and pretend this is an alternate universe. You know, like one where Rush Limbaugh is in control. I bet you *still* can't see the similarities!
P.P.S. If your friend tried to pull the religious card again, just point out that Jesus was a socialist, and the core of Christian values is supposed to be charity, not hypocrisy. (Although we both know which usually wins that fight.)
P.P.P.S. You are TOTALLY political enough to rebuke that garbage, you just knew I'd do it better.
(8 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Monday, December 14th, 2009|
Oh. She was the praying mantis all along. I get it.
(1 schmack talkin' fool | talk schmack)
|Thursday, October 8th, 2009|
6:18 pm - Crossing.
She stands midway through the overpass bike bath in that sort of cloudless yellow sky that oppresses late afternoon. Behind her, cars sent a choppy wind across her back, and with the nonstop rush of tires on pavement -- if she closed her eyes -- she could imagine she was at the beach. He taught her that, once upon a time, on those nights when sleep was rattled by the sound of the freeway through her window. "Just picture the waves breaking she shore..." and it was true.
The fingers of her left hand, wrapped through the chain link, are going numb as she stares at the bisecting vehicles rushing by below. Right eye focuses and cars spill forth from her abdomen; left eye focuses and they painlessly crash into her. Unfocused eyes and she senses that she is conduit, and nothing is in the fiberglass metal cells but her own will and being. A vertigo of circulation courses through her, and she feels like every car, from every direction, sweeps her body back and forth with the velocity of transit, and again she is in the ocean.
She has never excelled in math. In college, she took Statistics for a 'Pass' -- too scared of the stacks of hieroglyphic numbers. Like a proper conscientious and educated women, she listens to her NPR, and it learns her well. Her Guardian and BBC news keep her fat on information and an unspoken hedonism in pretension. And so, in all, she knows a bit about statistics.
Left eye focuses, she breathes ten times, and estimates that twenty-five people have driven by wondering when they'll find a job. One wonders where she went. Fifteen wonder when they will love again. Eight wonder why s/he did it. Three wonder 'Who?' A breath and ten people sing; mariachi, pop, hip-hop. Two sing something they wouldn't want their friends to catch them singing. She blinks one eye and counts two and knows a rapist has passed between her legs. Ten people in poverty, eight in fear of deportation, and two on the run. Seventeen with unpaid library fees. Thirty-five with no library card. Twelve who cannot read. Twenty men thinking about sex, but not with their wives. Eight thinking about fucking, but not with their mistresses. A bead of sweat licks her temple to her chin, and some son cries about a lost mother. A muscle spasms in her leg, and some mother remembers the too-soon burial of her son. By the time she kicks off on her bike, someone who did not say "I love you," before work this morning will slide past her into an an unforeseen nightmare; an endless expanse of locked land. By the time her left foot hits the pedal, someone has broken her path who will say "I love you," before work someday, with no intention of coming home.
She admits to herself she doesn't know shit about statistics, but 100% wonders how anyone gets behind the wheel, with so much potential to breakdown.
|Thursday, August 20th, 2009|
12:02 am - "I adore you because you made me a whore." p.151
"Okay, you see, it's like this-" you hadn't paused for my hello, you were talking at the click of call acceptance. You were ready to go.
"Once upon a time," you said, "you used to love roller skating. You were hella good at rollerskating. You could roller skate like a mother fucker. You could skate backwards, forwards, loop-de-loop, one-legged, criss-cross, figure-eight, spin, and couples skate like a motherfucker. You thought, "Goddamn, I am one roller skatin' son of a bitch!" Then one day someone tells you that you can't skate, and they tell you that you never could, and they put everything into putting all of your rollerskating, along with everything you are, down. And you start to believe it, until that person is gone. You start to believe that you could never even skate. What if you couldn't even stand up? So don't even want to try. You wouldn't even step foot in that rink.
When I roller skate, I wanna know it's for real. I don't just wanna roller skate with anyone just because the perfect slow song is on. When I couples skate, it has to mean something, like it's the last time."
You have to go.
In later hours, the hasty scrawls in textual walls, me wearing boxing gloves, and you wearing chemical glasses.
2.53 I wish i was with u right now warm and sleepy
2.54 Sarah says, "fuck you bitchface." Don't mind her, she is having an existential crisis. I wish I were roller skating.
3.07 Fuck yes see i tnld u roller skating rules i want to skate with u
3.08 You only roller skate if you can roller skate forever, remember? You don't wanna roller skate with me.
3.14 Yes i do remember never forgot just handnt wanted to until now
3.16 Wait, so you're saying you're willing to drop your skating standards, just this one time? I feel sooooo privileged. It's like couple skating without holding hands?
3.17 - Not dropping standards meeting them
3:29 U more now i close my eyes
3.31 Goodnight. Save your dreams for unicorns and black wizards; skating can be saved for a time not allocated to sleep.
For an amazing analogy, you sure fell hard on your ass on that highly polished floor.
|Wednesday, August 19th, 2009|
Absent the crazy I'm going stagnant.
When can I evolve now? Does it have to be through the different faces? Teacher face is evolving, home face is stone, heart face is graying.
I want to scream from lack of stimulation.
I will never leave the classroom if that is what it takes to stay alive.
I will teach to empty chairs until I'm perfect.
Some side of me is calm, but distant, and bored beyond belief.
Just leave me... leave me alone.
But leave me something to write about when you go.
|Sunday, August 16th, 2009|
I dreamed you showed up at my door, and I let you in.
You stumbled through my halls, knocking down pictures and furnishings, and hiding your stolen identities, and mumbling through cracked lips about how it keeps getting better and better.
It's always on the up and up with you. Always a new thing just around the corner. You're going to get you a doctor, you're going to swing this deal, you've got this great job lined up in this cool place with these great people and it's all just good, good, so good. Until three-four-five months pass and no peep and some faint word comes through and I sigh resignedly and say, "How long?" and it's always two-three months, after three-four-five months, and it's always fuzzy arithmetic that you brush away with "Shhhh, shhhh, don't worry about it." Just sweeping fingers across my eyes and telling me to forget, like a Jedi mind trick, or how mothers can hum into your ears and brush your hair down and it really is okay.
But it's not okay.
So you're walking down my halls, and you keep snapping your fingers -- all jazz and frenetic energy -- and this girl is following at your heels, laughing shrilly at the preposterous shit that ushers from between your cracked burned lips, your fucking Jabberwocky shit about the Vietnam war and New York subway lines and operatic metal. Like you're just repeating what the invisible birds circling your head are saying, and each one is a reincarnated beatnik. Dig it? You've got on that crazy crooked smile, the "Here's Johnny" smile, and it is all charged and sizzling and I wonder how you can walk down my halls like it's perfectly normal, and more than that how I could ever have found you normal.
And in all that, I miss you.
Because it is all so fucking cinematic. Like the time I went to drive you to that house, and I fumed in the driver seat while you sat turned toward me and said, "What do I do? What do I fucking do?" and I just screamed, "Nothing, nothing!" until I flew off the road and into a parking lot and threw the car into park and put my head against the steering wheel and cried until my Virgin Mary wheel cover was slick with tears. You threw your arms around me, and sobbed, "Please don't leave me. I love you... please don't leave," and I wiped my face and stared into the rain cracked window under the blaring gas station lights while you sobbed quietly, "Please don't leave me," and I knew you wouldn't and you never would and I wouldn't and I never did, and I didn't want that moment to end, because that was some real fucking Hollywood style "Sid and Nancy" shit right there.
So in my dream, the fat girl keeps laughing and I turn around and slam the door in her face and she is pounding on it and saying, "Let me in, bitch!" I push you down on the floor and pin your arms and I'm shaking, shaking, shaking you so fucking hard like I expect you to rattle and I'm screaming in your face, "Don't you fucking see this isn't right! Don't you see that you're killing yourself with this shit? Don't you see? Don't you see?" and you just laugh and the "Here's Johnny" smile just gets bigger and bigger until your whole face is just this mass of nicotine stained brown teeth, and blackened tongue, so I let you go, and you run out the door and take the fat bitch with you.
Out of no where, some fucking movie style queen with a generic foreign accent pops in and says, "Joo all are fu-cking cray-zee."
I hate my subconscious.
Not as much as I hate you.
|Thursday, August 6th, 2009|
7:00 pm - One for posterity.
I didn't know what it meant to fall for them all.
It's always been that way, though.
Lucien with his Mien Kampf glare (all apologies to my girl Sylvia), spinning analogies three seats back about the relationships on stage -- painfully wrung out by foot-shuffling, hand-fretting, messy haired, chain-smoking, compound word cliched, junior college artistes -- and the movement on the western front in some obscure historical battle. You asshole. Pretentious now, idol worship worthy then, I would split the room in giggles so he could know, "I get you, man, I get you." A three piece suit, a briefcase, a natty pea coat, a scarf, a fedora, like he just walked into his separate twin bed, no toilet having, pastel colored dream house and bellowed, "Honey, I'm home." An antiquated anomaly. Not the James Dean throw back found in rockabilly boys with their rat rods and shitty backroom ink blood blasted skin; a genuine rebel in a crew cut.
The idol worship became idle worship and then worship fell away completely. I don't know when the bloom fell off the rose, but it was somewhere around the time I recognized the limitlessness of his derision, and the cross hairs that surely included a point between my unmanicured brows. Sitting at a table of these criminally sub-par actors, beside a giant mural of french doors overlooking a colorful garden, my eyes drifting across the acrylic brush-stroked tulips, I snapped. Words pooled out, full of all the righteous indignation only a sixteen you old could muster. Precise, low, tones issued between teeth set in a line, with a tongue that hovered in prolonged fricatives, and the drawn-out sibilants implied in "seethe."
"You think you're so great." The 's' like a slow sweeping kick, the 'o' dipping like venom, "You're not so great." So beautifully clear. And the teenaged girl shed a burial shroud.
There was a lost minute where the grown man lapped up my lack of adulation, as I threw down a few dollars for the table and the time and dessert sitting uneaten on my plate, and I was out the door, the coffee still bitter on my breath. I licked it off my teeth, and for my victory it might have been blood.
Sometimes I think he must have been a spy. He doesn't seem to exist, or have ever existed. Except as he exists in a moment critical then and distorted now where I once again lost sight of the line between predator and victim.
We're all sparrows and vultures, ennit?
|Wednesday, June 17th, 2009|
The first time you kissed me, it was frantic. You flew across the car and grabbed my face with your hands, twisted me toward you, and your mouth was on mine, hot and wet, and all over. I swerved slightly, caught off guard, and righted myself and my vehicle while something inside me dropped away, and something inside me exploded. I couldn't close my eyes for the fact of driving, and it was like everything sparkled: the green and red slick-shine shatters of light reflecting off the wet streets of Oak Park; the humid summer air. Gasping for breath, I broke back, dull halogen orange pulsing off the street lamps into my eyes.
"I'm fucking driving here!" The light turned red. "But now I'm not." We flew across the seats and locked fingers and lips and horns like charging rams.
Radiohead split the speakers and my head in the closing strains of "Let Down," that moment that twinkles like pixie dust in movies, but closer listening reveals as millions of layered digital pings. Fairy dust as fractured digitalia. Fractured fairy dust for fucked up fairy tales, as the wolf crept in, desperate and hungry.
You kissed me like a caged animal, something feral and ferocious. You were hoping I could save you. You never kissed me like that again, and in the months ensuing I kissed you like an animal, wanting to consume you, wanting to claw back into that fairy tale moment, hide inside your belly and shift inside your skin. I wanted to try you on, because something about the beast made me feel more alive. Suddenly I was all nails on skin and wet streamers of damp hair, teeth and claws and roars. Oh my. You gave up after that initial animal kiss, and I became predatory. I kissed you like an animal, and you kissed me like a cage.
(1 schmack talkin' fool | talk schmack)
|Sunday, June 7th, 2009|
(6 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Wednesday, May 27th, 2009|
My breath comes so heavy. I think it's the sun. I hope it's the sun.
Is it time to speak in strange?
I see ghosts in garden hoses. I wandered through the park and saw strange eyes peering up through dreadlocks, and something in me seized up. I ducked my head, wished I could grab my stomach from off the ground, but I was walking too fast. It wasn't a ghost, it wasn't a reflection, it wasn't a shadow. It wasn't anything. The skin and down-turned eyes followed me home. Like McCartney '69 if he couldn't sleep for weeks.
You kids are so cute, going to rehab like it is summer camp. Are you all to stupid to see how fucking hollow your eyes are?
Me? I'm addicted to Dr. Pepper. I need a beer helmet full of the shit at all times.
I had more to say, but I forgot. Oh well.
(1 schmack talkin' fool | talk schmack)
|Monday, May 4th, 2009|
Well, better to get my heart broken now than months or years from now, when it will REALLY sting.
Being responsible for once sucks, and makes irrationality seem almost appealing, but I have to be strong this time.
Rallying to reacquaint myself with solitude. The reprieve was brief, and I feel like I was elevated just enough to crack my knees again in the fall. Inside: bruised lips and busted knuckles, and fingernails that bleed. It sounds like a nursery rhyme. Outside: quiet and clean, with just the faintest new world-weary creases about the eyes.
Insomniatic thoughts on the horizon.
In other news, personal or not, have you ever noticed how scam-artists always get "teh cancer?" What's that about?
(5 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Tuesday, April 21st, 2009|
I received a letter stating that they were "rescinding [my] notice of possible non-rehire." I still have my job.
In an appropriately comical turn, I actually received this letter several days ago and didn't open it, because I just assumed it was formal documentation of the hearings with regards to laid-off employees. I wrote that damn journal entry, stressed and cried about my position, and that letter was thumb-tacked to the bulletin board the whole time.
The due date for my task was pushed back to Wednesday. I completed it today, except for the supporting documentation, which I need to collect from students, which I should get tomorrow.
I'm confronting a minor ghost tonight, in going to see a friend who is passing through on tour with Mates of State. Getting guest-listed is pretty flippin' sweet. Dealing with someone who lightweight broke your heart, probably less sweet. Somehow, inexplicably, I feel like I have something to prove by showing I know how to be a friend, without the ties of the furtive and unrealistic romance that scratched at two lost and lonely hearts for a brief moment not so very long ago. I think I'm almost confronting my shame on this one. I don't think that makes sense to anyone but me. Plus, I kinda like Mates of State. I'm shallow, or something.
I just noticed the hole for cream filling in the little bon bons printed on my sheets are heart shaped. Aww. Gag.
I feel like I'm carrying imaginary loaded weapons right now, my fists forming shooter-fingers, like I'm going to spin them from the holsters and point and everything is going to explode.
I guess I feel good.
|Monday, April 20th, 2009|
8:48 pm - "Everything that keeps us together is falling apart..."
I am so overwhelmed I don't even know where to begin here.
I'm in fucking limbo. My job is in limbo, my living situation is in limbo, and my response is just to pretend it isn't happening and deplete my increasingly pathetic savings.
Scary fact: I don't know if I will have a job with the school next year.
Scarier fact: I'm not even sure I care. I love my job, but I am also frustrated and overwhelmed with it. Part of me feels like this might be a blessing, as I need to get out of this town, and I don't know if I will do it if by staying at the school.
I want my job, but I also want out. I don't know the sky from the soil right now, I am so turned about.
Earlier I had a startling realization that I am incredibly depressed in almost every aspect of my life, and I was utterly blind to it. At the same time, I don't feel at all depressed, I just now recognize it has been subtextually looming underneath everything I do. I've been being incredibly self-destructive out of fear, confusion, or apathy. I've let my studies kind of fall behind, to the point that I don't have a task completed that is critical to my credentialing, and it is due tomorrow. It is hard to force myself to do these tasks when my future at the school is so uncertain, and my educational program feels like a fucking clown show anyway. Those assholes have been raping me for 500$ a month since July, and they're rewarding me with aggravatingly pointless and non-helpful classes and and aggravating lack of guidance or assistance. Two weeks before our first task was due, they fired the incompetent program director. I feel vindicated in my loathing... vindication doesn't put my task on their desk, or my credential in my hand, however. I, in my typically last-minute way, have faith I will work this crap out by tomorrow. My life is a series of existential thrills, found in the foibles that inevitably accompany pushing myself into the last ten seconds of a deadline.
My roommate is 400$ behind on rent and utilities, and the first approaches swiftly. I am pretending like this will work out.
I do not think it will work out; I will probably begin selling my stuff soon.
Amidst all that, I've been so fucking happy in other areas of my life lately that it is no wonder I didn't notice how tasked I've been by those concerns, and others. Everything in my life depresses me, except one thing. His name begins with a W, but I call him by an L, and somehow I've managed to completely suppress my anxiety and angst in some haze of moments of laughter, lust, admiration, understanding and education. I'm being challenged mentally, and I'm now feeling rather mentally-challenged. For the slow-wits like me out there, that is code word for, "I'm kind of retarded."
Naturally, because I am me, I am a fucking mess about it in a lot of ways, because I don't know how to deal with any man who isn't a fucking jackoff.
Today I took a nap, and dreamed that he sent me an e-mail. "When you told me I am the only thing in your life right now that makes you happy, I realized I can't do that. I need some time. I'm sorry." Dream-me responded by tweeting, "Fuck men" (I love how even in my dreams my life is lived in text and trite internetworks.) Dream-me followed that up by being somewhat, and rather unexpectedly, crushed. Dream-me then reminded dream-me that this is why real-me doesn't get close to people, because people hurt you. Dream-me gives excellent advice; real me should pay more attention.
I want to slap the shit out of myself for not knowing how to deal with some of the thoughts in my head.
Armchair analysis of dream:
* Don't rely on people to make you happy.
* Don't let people get close enough that they can hurt you.
* Don't let people leaving be the source of pain.
* Don't let yourself get too deep.
* Scratch that, don't let yourself get any deeper, because you're already somewhere on the ladder of "fucked."
"Oh my god, I sound like a fucking psycho."
Where is that oral shut off valve when I need it?
What was I saying earlier? The turf looks a lot like finespun sugar clouds, and that expanse of sky might very well be the ocean in which I'm drowning. Do I need a life vest? An umbrella? Crutches? A parachute? An emergency eject button? Maybe I need to grab an ottoman and a bucket of popcorn, kick my feet up and enjoy the show.
(1 schmack talkin' fool | talk schmack)
|Wednesday, March 11th, 2009|
She was looking out the window at the unfinished facade, mentally rushing construction, if only for the way the setting sun split the buttresses, and a dull golden light beamed from inside the arched windows of the simple, elegant bell tower.
She doesn't believe in god, but she knew she needed a piece of faith. She had to find a peace of faith. Had to find it some way other than on her knees with her damp palms pressed against the bedroom wall.
"What are you doing."
"Looking at the construction."
"Is it done?"
"No. What part of 'construction' implies that it is done? I don't think it will ever be done. They just keep ripping it down and rebuilding."
They just keep ripping her down.
She just keeps rebuilding.
(1 schmack talkin' fool | talk schmack)
|Thursday, November 6th, 2008|
8:51 pm - "Anteros is the god of unrequited love."
The sweeping strings and slow escalation remind me of when I used to
close my eyes tight and imagine your face in microscopic, blessedly
flawed detail, convinced that I could feel you shifting around inside
me, pushing through my blood, making me heart flood faster than it could
contain, to swell up and ache against my ribcage. I felt like you
breathed inside me, and somehow listening to that song brought you
closer to me.
You no longer breathe in me, and I no longer listen to that song.
|Thursday, September 4th, 2008|
It is nights like this where I wish I smoked indoors. Cotton sheets, nest of pillows, pliant mattress beneath my weary body... it sounds so good right now.
Thrice in the last few months have I wound up in that unfamiliar situation -- a smokey room, inside and away from the roar of crickets and the chirp of the freeway.
Perhaps that longing stems from the toes that curl around your own, the brush of awkward being against being. I crave the dimly lit and hazy, the population of two, half asleep and going nowhere, ringed by smoke and uncertainty.
I'm really good and really bad at being undefined. I've crashed from my months long high, and feeling like I am "stumbling fingers-splayed, in the dark, hoping I hit a dirt road soon... or at least some trampled grass."
I see my typewriter and shy away, recoil, glance through it into nonexistence, like the homeless man on the street corner, shoeless and slumped, with his cup extended. I have nothing to pour into it. Not a penny for my thoughts. I've forgotten how to be candid.
I am ever so candid. My typewriter is broken. Keys still work, ink still stains, but the stroke has been broke by invading fingers, and my last missive still sits there like an accusation, or a great wall against creation. I'm afraid to pull it out. Call it superstition, like how I press my lips against finger tip, to brush the ceiling and make a wish, when crossing a yellow-light intersection.
I am awfully superstitious. I made the same wish for months, thinking somehow it caused a flutter that invoked a prompt response. Now my fingers drift absently, hand to mouth, hand to sky, touching canvas on a wrecked vehicle, and no thought passes through as I unconsciously and ritualistically say my prayers.
For a while it seemed like it worked. Did I lose faith?
I used to sleep with your photo under my pillow; I thought it helped me dream of you, and somehow maybe dreaming of you made you dream of me. Even with a foreign head resting on the pillow nearby, and smooth, gangly limbs in a cufflike hold around my waist, your coyly resigned eyes burned through beneath my polyester halo. My hands would fumble up in the night, touch the sticky chemical imprint of your face, an assurance you were still there, where you never were, before my mind would slip back into sleepless rest.
I swore it worked, until it stopped working; I developed an immunity to my own superstitious faith.
"I need a shut off valve for my mouth." I am ever so candid, in these hidden thoughts and pages, where few trespass. I write letters that might be lies, or might be more true than I can bear to admit. Can I bear my soul? Can I bare my soul?
I'm done with documenting my shame, for the moment.
(2 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Tuesday, September 2nd, 2008|
They said, "Ms. M., do you write poetry?"
"I don't write poetry," I replied, "I write a lot of journals, though."
"I guess because the only one who really understands me is myself."
(2 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Monday, August 25th, 2008|
7:21 pm - If I could tell you...
*1 If I could tell you. . . I am okay. Better than okay; I am happy. I wouldn't tell you I'm sorry, I think I said that enough. Did I say it? I'm pretty sure I said it. If I could tell you . . . that I got what we both wanted for me, and as much as I wish you could have held on until I found it, I understand why you couldn't. If I could tell you . . . I miss you. I miss being your friend, but I know now it was all for the best. I wouldn't be here with me, were I there with you. If I could tell you . . . shine.
*2 If I could tell you . . . thank you. I wanted to and I've tried, but distance and neuroses and sleeplessness and sleepiness and pills and booze and illness and lies and life just seem to get in the way. Thank you. She told me that you were the worst thing that would ever happen to me. You were the best. Not because you are the best, but because you were what you were, which was not him, and not me. You gave me a new heartache that hurt/s but didn't cripple me. If I could tell you . . . you made me love music again, you made me crave sensation, you made my eyes open to colors, you made my skin electric to touch, you made me spin, you were chaos through osmosis, you made me spiral just enough, yet stayed so far in the distance of your bottomless black hole that I never got fully dragged down whole, though my mouth yawned wide to meet pandemonium full force, an injection of destruction into my aching sweet-tooth. You gave me a static in my brain that helped ease the pain, and you gave me a lukewarm taste of what madness feels like. If I could tell you. . . I told you once, "There is always some madness in love. But there is always some reason in madness." If I could tell you . . . I love you. I don't. I really quite despise you. I love you as the worst part of me, which is ever so far from me. If I could tell you . . . that your life is a black prison, and my life is a technicolor prism. Will you haunt my peripheral forever, just to remind me of balance? If I could tell you . . . thank you.
*3 If I could tell you . . . I forgive you. I miss you. I do think of you. I still don't know the truth, and I doubt I ever will. I see this as a pattern emerging in my life. I spoke of you in July. . . retold the story to my latest wounded bird. You were among the first of those wounded birds, those little things I felt compelled to pick up and try and usher under my wing. Little fragile things that are supposed to master flight, but never seem to soar. The broken wings from the broken past. . . the frail bones, exterior tough but yearning and ever so meek. The first night I met you, you curled up into my side and lay your head on my thigh and murmured, "I'm so sleepy." I put my wing over you. When you walked away, and later the truthful untruths and questionable objectionable half-truths and lies came out, I felt like my wings had failed. If I could tell you . . . I understand. If I could tell you . . . soar.
*4 If I could tell you . . . I don't think I will ever forgive you. If I could tell you . . . that is all I have to say. You don't warrant more words. I've wasted enough on you.
*5 If I could tell you . . . I've made peace. I can't believe you destroyed me once. You're so tiny now, almost pathetic. I am glad we found each other again; it made me realize that Goliath was a mouse who cast a very large shadow. Tell me you love me. Tell me you're in love with me. I have those words on pages for ages and ages, and they never stopped coming, and they never started being true. You can flip the switch on your tick and twitch, and flippantly dash out a few coy, cloying lines, you can beg me to come over, you can tell me I am gone, and it is all okay. A bemused smile slicks my lips. Yes, yes, come over. Come over. We can cuddle and watch movies. We can go to sleep in separate homes with a promise to get married, to run off into the sun, to light things on fire and throw them out of the windows into the streets. I will never see your room, I will never see your bed, I will never see your face again. I have no desire to look at a picture that has sat fading and cracking in the sun for ten years. If I could tell you . . . maybe you finally are my soulmate, because I've learned how to play your game.
*6 If I could tell you . . . life is beautiful. I dedicate this one to all.
(1 schmack talkin' fool | talk schmack)
So I've been copying and pasting all my journal entries from my other journal into my LJ, in order to keep everything together. I discovered that while I do not post frequently, but when I do, the 25th day of the month seems to be the magic day that I grace my journal with entries. Huzzah, it is the 25, so here is an entry documenting the first line of every 25th that I have, between the two journals, for the last 9 years. (Jesus Christo, nine years is a long time. I am so old.)
September 25th, 2007: "It got mighty cold around these parts mighty fast."
July 25th, 2007: : "The first time I met the woman they called God, she allowed me to take
July 25th, 2006: "Jump past the asterix for "interesting" musings. The rest of this is just bullshit."
August 25th, 2005: "Dear Sprint,
Since you only see fit to provide me with service 2/3 of the time, I've decided I'm only going to send you 2/3 of the money I owe every month."
April 25th, 2005: "The date is looming very close."
March 25th, 2005: "This is kinda fucked up. "
February 25th, 2005: "Does anyone else find it ironic that there is this huge court battle going on about whether they should remove Terri Schiavo's feeding tube, when the reason her system collapse occurred was because of a chemical imbalance brought on by an eating disorder?"
January 25th, 2005: "So it begins."
October 25th, 2003: "Tim is my Will. Yes. It was nice to see Tim smile for once. "
August 25th, 2003: "I'm going to Burning Man."
July 25th, 2003: "Kelly comes tonight; giddy is not an adequate descriptor."
March 25th, 2003: "I have a room. I'm moving to Sac."
October 25th, 2002: "Wellstone is dead."
December 25th, 2001: "So what did everyone get for Christmas/Hanukah/Kwanza/their under-represented holiday equivalent?"
"I am talking to C."
"Oh my god. C. has had a livejournal since 6-27-2001."
July 25th, 2001: "Holy shit"
May 25th, 2001: "Oh my god. . . I just saw footage of the Jerusalem wedding hall collapse."
"I want Taco Bell."
April 25th, 2001: ""He woke up in the middle of the night, terrified. "I was so scared. I dreamed you were dead. I was so scared. . .""
"I hate the fucking summer."
March 25th, 2001: "Last night I got to do karaoke for the first time. "
"I had a dream last night that Charlie cheated on me with AngelicDestiny."
"I dyed my hair."
"Bjork's swan dress is about the ugliest thing I have ever seen, but appropriately Bjork."
January 25th, 2001: ""There is sadness on my finger.""
December 25th, 2000: "Happy C(apital)istmas!"
November 25th, 2000: "Two Hours. . .
and then I can press tight against him, rest my face against his neck and hold on.
Two hours. . ."
"And a lot of the time I feel fucking ignored."
September 25th, 2000: "I got suckered into buying a magazine subscription from some kid. . . I am a damn sucker. "
"Charlie made me a PB&J sammich for dinner. Yum. "
"Time to go kick it with my Charlie."
August 25th, 2000: "Oh fuck. . . I have no deodorant."
"I bought a little girly Spice Girls shirt today."
July 25th, 2000: "
"I gave Charlie a black eye last night."
"I really don't like being a bitch. . . but some people in life deserve it. "
June 25th, 2000: "My body is sore. And I am hungry, but not up to cooking. I want fajitas."
May 25th, 2000: "I am really craving an egg and cheese crossant from Burger King right now. . . it is the only thing I like off their entire menu."
Wow, all that seemed way more interesting at the time. The whole concept of this post seemed more interesting until I actually sat down to collect it.
Whatever. The first line of my post for August 25th, 2008:
"So I've been copying and pasting all my journal entries from my other journal into my LJ, in order to keep everything together. "
|Sunday, August 24th, 2008|
I read backward, backward five years. It was beautiful. I need to save this sacred skin; I need to make my words live again.
Lately I look back at photos of me from the beforetime and I think, "Wow. I was so fucking beautiful back then.".
I hope when I look back on photos of me right now, a year from now, I think "Wow. I was so fucking beautiful back then."
I wish that I could look at photos of me right now and think, Wow. I am so fucking beautiful right now.
He says: "I can see your eyes trying to stare blankly in these photos." What does that mean? "You have a very 'don't look at the camera' look about you." He is right. I can't look into the camera. What if it actually sees me?
"Youth is wasted on the young."
I almost died last night. I'm still in shock at how I made it out of this one. I'm still humbled by my own stupidity. After two weeks of 14 hour days, and three hours of sleep per night, I finally crashed, literally and figuratively. I knew I should have said no to the show, explained that I was tired, and didn't have it in me. I didn't. In my endless faith in my invincibility, and ability to rock-'n'-fucking-roll through any sort of exhaustion, I drove an hour away to watch my friend's band play. Dirty, sweaty, hot, loud, thrumming, slamming, bumping, screaming, hugging, drinking, tugging, high flying, riotous, hardcore, throw you over the edge, jumping off the ledge, everything that you expect and nothing that is expected. Strange how every show is fundamentally the same, and yet there is still something electric about living through your déjà vu.
Except I couldn't stand up. I couldn't play the game anymore. Ten minutes into the drive my eyes became so heavy... So very heavy... "Like a ten minute dream on the passenger seat, while the world was flying by..." I dozed. I awoke to the roadside bushes hitting my car. I spun out. Headlights blinding, where no headlights should be -- burning into my eyes as they all darted around me. Bad fucking acid, all these swirls of colors where I expected none. Instinct and dumb fucking luck, a frantic tug of the wheel and I was back in the flow, like nothing ever happened... except my heart pumping too frantically, making my ears ring louder than the noise that had reverberated through the speaker not an hour before. I righted my self. I righted myself and knew I had to fucking RIGHT myself. I can't kill anyone I love by dying because I don't know how to accept that I am human.
When I got home, I went to open my car door, and just above the lock, trapped between the glass and the frame, was this:
You don't gotta be religious to believe in signs. Girl get by, get down, get up and know that you scraped through this one, with a flower to remind you of fresh dirt on a six foot hole in the ground that you ain't jumpin' into just yet.
You've been given your all, but you still got a lot more to give... you're so sure you're really livin', but you can't live life if you ain't livin'.
I am infinite... but still mortal.
Today is for peace and introspection.
"Please don't... for me." Two inconvenient phone calls, but you're "kinda in love" with me. Oh hey, I'm speaking in code again.
Give a yell if you "kinda love" me.
(2 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Friday, August 15th, 2008|
Things that interest no one but myself:
I got to go back into my classroom again. It did not look as I left it, but it still felt like my heart jumped out of my chest when I opened the door.
The IT guy was skulking about in my room when I got there. I'd asked for any kind of old printer to hook up to my student work station so my kids could print things... instead they gave me some swanky new printer that is all networked up. Score!
In my quest for something as simple as a rolling cart for my antique old overhead projector, the darling librarian gave me an actual projector and an ELMO 3D presenter -- neither of which she is supposed to check out for year long use, but she did it for me, just 'cuz. I'm all tekkied up! Last year I got the worst of the worst, and this year I am moving up the technological ladder. No more transparencies, I can utilize any color object that will fit on the board, and I can hook my lappy up for presentations. I can't even begin to wrap my head around the potential, but I am ecstatic. (I told you this was interesting to no one but me.)
I looked at my roster for my one 11th grade class, and I have around ten students from last years 10th grade classes, about three of whom were absolute favorite students, four were decent kids and students, and three who weren't absolute pills. I literally jumped for joy. Not figuratively. Literally.
I plugged my ipod into my speakers and danced around as I rearranged my classroom, tearing down pages and breaking down walls. I know I am there, I am in, I am not transient, it is MY space, it is MY future. I am full of strategy, and pedagogy, and positivity, and enthusiasm.
Instruction starts in four days.
I start my chest piece in seven.
I hit a perfect ten. I could write the ultimate book of love on the back of matchbooks -- small but inflammatory.
I'm getting chubby, but I don't care! There is a reason for the phrase "Fat and Happy."
Besides, the 7 to 11 schedule will whittle the weight away in no time.
If all goes as planned, I, and my chub, will traipse through the desert in about two weeks. Half-naked and half reborn. It is all like living life with virgin skin.
I am still kind of stuck in insomnia, but I don't care. Hours slept are hours wasted. I've been listening to "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning," almost nonstop. I cherish my dreams, but waking up constantly is more satisfying. Every three minutes I find myself awakening from dreams and nightmares, and confronting the most blinding dawns that promise exquisitely long and adventurous days.
Sometimes I cannot believe how beautiful things can be. I can't tell where happiness starts, and where happiness is created.
I am infinite.
Sorry. More hippie shit.
|Sunday, July 27th, 2008|
2:26 pm - triple x posted.
This journal has always swung between impersonally irreverent, and intimately morose. Alternately used as a place to snark and scoff, or cry and bleed.
I haven't sat down and reread this blog "cover to cover," if you will, as I did a few days ago with my paper bound journal that I started around the same time in my life. Perhaps I shall have to do that. Reading that journal, some of my thoughts and feelings from that era sounded incredibly similar to things I am thinking and feeling right now in my life.
Thursday night, I burst into tears . . . because I am so fucking happy. I was literally so happy I cried. I feel like I can't even contain all the frantic energy that is bubbling inside me, like everything in me is shining so hard that my skin might tear open from the pressure of being in love.
Someone told me that, "You sound like you're in love." I am! I have fallen in love with music, and writing, and reading, and friends, and every stranger I meet on the street. I have fallen in love with the feeling of summer sweat sticking to my skin; the cold air rushing through the window on long drives; the laughter that I can't contain; the smiles that constantly tear my face for no apparent reason; the blackness of night, and the golden glow of day; with riding bikes; with walking aimlessly; with crowds; with solitude; with the taste of coffee; with the burn of my cloves in my lungs; with daydreaming; with over-analyzing; with running into things; with the awkward grace of my own body; with the sense that I am electric; with those fleeting and infrequent melancholy moments; with the desire to get back in my classroom; with the knowledge I am going to evolve into an amazing teacher; with the drive to do just that; with the sense that I am boundless and free, and possess the infinite potential to love others, driven by this sense that I am really coming to understand what it means to love myself.
I am falling in love with myself.
I have fallen in love with life.
I've been feeling like this for weeks, maybe even months... I keep wanting to pinch myself to see if it is real. I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop, though, because I know that all of this positivity lives in me as long as I continue to be positive.
Call me a hippy, call me cliched, but the difference between the girl who wrote similar thoughts five years ago and the girl who writes them today is that this girl is becoming complete.
I fucking love life! I just wish I were infectious.
Take that, my friends, it is a new page in this book.
(2 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Wednesday, June 18th, 2008|
And I guess it was somewhere around this time that she had to accept that she was ordinary. Really, really ordinary. The thought had been looming somewhere, in the back of her brain, for quite some time, a lumbering beast that barely evaded detection. Motherfuckin' sasquatch, so huge and hairy that you have to wonder how something that should be so obvious manages to escape detection for so long. Apparently there are a lot of trees in that forest, and I can't see the trees for all the little leaves I've used to construct some sort of fundamental identity and comfortable notion of supremacy. Somewhere in all that minutia, I've lost sight of the grass, moss, bark, and somehow, a big fucking monster called banality that looks a lot like that slightly skewed, sleepy-eyed face I see staring back in every vaguely reflective pane of glass.
Damn, did I slip perspective? You can only talk about yourself in the third person for so long before you realize that there is no third person, there is no point in the he/she pronoun, because we are ultimately really selfish bastards, and no one actually matters to us, any more than us (I). For as long as you can hold off on that understanding, that is how long the third person really matters to you. Second person is twice as useless. "You do this," hasn't been a relevant option in life since you/I/they stopped reading "Choose Your Own Adventure," books. "You do this..." Oh fuck you. I always tell myself I will stop even trying to identify. The years of deconstructionist theory should have broken down any misguided notions of expression or understanding, and I can throw it out as casually as I flick a cigarette -- "Yeah, hey, it's cool, language is fallible and intangible and anything we say is ultimately lost in the translation between pre-established connotations that differ by individual and experience, regardless of if they are speaking the same "language," and it doesn't really matter anyway, because, you know, beyond that, language is just a string of identifiers that really just exist as an extension of the idea that 'what is'" (throw up the 'ironic' -- which by definition isn't really ironic, except for maybe in an Alanis sense of the word -- finger quotes), "is by default what it "is not," so it all becomes bogged down in how when I am saying this I am definitely not saying that, but I'm definitely not saying anything, really. So yeah, I just said a whole lot of nothing, and you just heard a whole lot of nothing I was actually trying to convey, which doesn't matter either, because I don't even know what I'm trying to convey, because it is all totally arbitrary. It's cool, baby, I don't know much, but what I do know is that we don't understand a goddamned thing about each other. Hand me another Pabst."
Suddenly it all becomes alright, because when you said, "I miss you," what you really said to me is, "I exist, and I want to think that other important things exist, because those so-called important things affirm to me that I exist," and what I really heard was, "You exist, and I want you to exist in my physical presence right now, but cannot," and really what I am thinking is, "I exist, and I want to think that other important things exist, and I want you to remember that I exist, because existing in the memories of these other so-called important things affirms to me that I exist."
Suddenly it becomes alright, because when it all comes down to it, we always wind up saying, "That is not it at all, that was not what I meant, at all." (Let the record stand I only half-consciously realized what I was typing as I was typing it. I'm only half-pretentious, albeit totally obvious, right now.) Every argument just winds down to both parties screaming, "You don't fucking get it!" I propose we just throw rocks at each other instead.
I also propose we omit all pronouns except for first person pronoun -- I promise to get increasingly cyclical before I am done here, I cannot promise I will tie it all up in some neat little package at the end -- this is, naturally, due to our inherent short-sightedness. "What we talk about when we talk about us." That is garbage, all we are ever talking about is us. Or ourselves. Or myself.
A friend just messaged me:
"Deciding that I will heretofore use no pronoun except for first person, and everything and everyone shall now be 'I,' 'me,' and 'my.'"
and follow up with,
"So what am I doing?"
"going tothe dentst" (No, really, he really types like that. Why are some of the most brilliant people I've ever met, damn near fucking illiterate?)
"Am I going to get a front on my grill? I'd look good with some platinum shields, maybe a little flash of diamonds that read, "Thug Life," or "Over Bite," or "Mundane."
"haha i love u"
"I love me, too."
See how easy that was? Completely upfront, no bullshit added, I am, as I have always been, talking about me, even when I was talking about... me. As an added benefit, I get to love me by the end of it.
Sasquatch says, "Man, fuck your solipsism."
Perhaps I will
(2 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Saturday, March 29th, 2008|
I thought I'd be okay this time. It didn't feel as crushing. Until I came home and everything was gone, and I realized that part of me was gone, too. Then I broke down and cried.
(2 schmack talkin' fools | talk schmack)
|Monday, February 4th, 2008|
It is sorta weird when you keep fighting for something, fighting for something, fighting for something... and then at some point you just realize that you don't even give a fuck and it is a waste of time. Then you just can't even figure out what you're fighting for.
That summarizes so much of my life right now.
In other news, fifteen year olds are fucking hilarious.
"mal is a prefix that means bad. Example: I was malled by a dog."
"bene means good. Example: Ms. Marge has bene-diction."
"Vintage: dating from a time long past. Example: My boyfriend and me are vintaging."
In other news, I have become that lady who won't shut the fuck up about her job.
I am like a mom who always wants to talk about her kids, except I have one hundred and fifty of them and they all hate me. Sometimes I want to tell myself to shut up. I am sorry for my suck.
|Friday, November 30th, 2007|
I need to stop reading the CL Missed Connections when I am bored and
only have my phone to keep me company. They are depressing, and an
exercise in human sadness. Every fifth post is really vauge word vomit
about love lost and every sixth, seventh and eighth post is a "this culd
be me, plz post initials, plz?" It is a study of human loneliness.
Somewhere amidst all that I read something like:
"What would you do if you found out you only had only one day left to
You should live every day of your life like that last day."
It has been hurting my head.
I know my last day.
Do you know yours?
|Thursday, October 18th, 2007|
And now for something completely different.
I'm not always morbid and sad. I'm not always in tears. I smile more lately. Driving home Tuesday I saw a line of three trees with the vibrant fire-leaves of autumn; each tree had leaves that were slightly more vibrant red than the one before, like an ascendant rainbow of red and orange set against an unbearably perfect, brooding, grey, overcast sky. I wished I could stop to take a picture, but I decided it was okay that I couldn't, because no one picture could ever convey the swelling that occurred in my heart when I saw that line of trees set against that gloomy sky. That moment belonged to me.
It reminds me a little of this:
I don't know why. When I see that I just think "Yeah. Exactly."
My roommates want to keep me forever and ever. It makes me happy. Now I just have to get a low interest home loan and buy a house big enough to accommodate all of us, plus the baby they're trying to have. I'm the "Sister Wife." We are so creepy and yet cool and fun all at once.
I am still mums on the thing that I am supposed to be getting but haven't heard yet for maybe sure, don't know. Fingers crossed and allegedly in like Flynn, but the waiting is making me crazy.
Oh, and the doctor made me get spectacles. Apparently I wouldn't pass a DMV eye exam. I kind of hate them for a number of reasons, but mostly I just never realized the world was this clear. I'm kind of addicted to them now.
Also, I can't take pictures without making stupid fucking faces.
|Monday, October 8th, 2007|
I wish I had a number I could call where I could just talk about everything I have to talk about, without interruption and without judgment. Where I could just babble openly. I guess I wish I had a 24-hour on call shrink. What is it about thoughts that we just need to expel them, need to vocalize them and need to know someone is listening? It isn't just about putting it out there. I need to purge, but purging isn't enough, I need to know someone knows. How self-absorbed. Perhaps I need to work on not telling people, on not pushing my thoughts onto the unwilling listeners. I need to hold it in and process because getting it out isn't doing anything except exhausting those around me.
Maybe I should take up a journal. A real one that no one can see. Everyone says to write it down, but that never works for me -- I've always needed that back and forth gratification. Maybe it is time to really try. If only it didn't seem like so much work to pick up a pen.
Or I can be elliptical and tragic, and write about things so that no one understands but me. I am good at that.
"write for example, the night is full of stars . . ."
The good thing about pain is that it makes music more beautiful. A single lyric can bring tears to my eyes; a certain note send lightening coursing across my heart, make my skin hurt like shock. I never love music so much as when my heart is breaking.
I resent that I write all this out, and force it into the world. I wish I could be a wall, too. I wish it didn't move me so much.
Tomorrow I would be eating Jose Ole and Easy Mac, in a different time and place in a different me who loved a different someone. I would be celebrating the fouth of a first I had celebrated before. In another universe I would be held while I fell asleep. In another universe I am a rocket scientist or a serial killer. I need to get away from what might have been and move on with what is.
Is it all too real? I can turn on my stretched out smile, the one that never meets my eyes, the one I wear to work or the grocery store. You want the trivial?
I'm fine. I'm good. No, no, I graduated in May. Oh yes, I love it. No, I didn't change it, just brushed it different. It took about 25 hours, no not all at once and yes it hurt.
I might have that teaching job in the bag, as long as no one from within the district applies in the next five days. I already have an interview with the principal for when the waiting period is up. I will have to learn 180 names and personalities and learning levels. I will have to make lesson plans and lectures and activities. I will be grounded here in the 'ville, find a house to rent and pull my things out of storage. I will be so busy my head will spin and I won't have time to look back on the life I can't lead. I look forward to occupation, to burying myself in my new life.
You don't have to read all this. I really hope you didn't. You don't have to listen, I just have to speak.
|Tuesday, September 25th, 2007|
It got mighty cold around these parts mighty fast. It is okay, though,
since I am gearing up for Wisconsin. I think I heard the average winter
temperature is 9 degrees? It will give me an excuse to wear my fuzzy
white hat. Also, Madison has been called the "Austin of the North" and
I have been warned not to move there unless I am a "granola eating
liberal". Since I am pretty fucking liberal and like granola, that
sounds fine. The heavy travel positions are rumored to be dreadful but
I think it could be interesting. Plus you are assigned an expense
account, so the potential to save money is there.
All that is unless my roommate's dad gets me that position at Fairfield
High. Apparently they're in serious need of someone to fill a
position. I can teach in the ghetto! For some reason that appeals to
me. Less pay, the same miserable area, but still teaching high school
as my masochistic side so wants to do.
Current listening, largely courtesy of becca:
"Good Woman" Cat Power.
"Kick You Out" The Caesers.
"Breakin' Up" (despite the fact that the new album is terrible) Rilo
"A Smile that Explodes" Joseph Arthur.
"Falling Away With You" Muse.
"Like Eating Glass" Bloc Party.
"Letter to Elise" the Cure.
"I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got" Betty Lavette.
"1234" by Feist, in utter disregard of the fact that that the ipod
commercial totally played it out.
Beyond that I don't understand how one can do so much and feel like
they've accomplished so little?
I have little pieces of a former life and a potential life scattered
around me and it is like reassembling broken glass sometimes - back to
the whole thermodynamics argument - it is messy and confusing and it
draws blood. Yet the world is out there, vast and beautiful and ready
to be taken.
This is the most boring update ever. Therefore I feel pointless in
stating the following: should I disappear fear not, the ones who love
me know how to find me. If I go black for a while it isn't so far from
the distance I have already put between me and this place. Did that
read as a "waaah! I'm taking my toys and leaving"? Because it wasn't.
I've been here long enough to know the pull and I will be back. I just
might as well close off my face as a public entity until I can see
through the glass again.
I will be the phoenix from the ashes.
|Friday, August 24th, 2007|
Okay, so I guess I should update this, but don't really know how.
I am still with limited internet access, so to the peeps out there, I'm
sorry if I'm ignoring you. My phone service is also tenuous, so all in
all my interactivity is stunted.
I was feeling akward for a while living where I'm living, but I bought
my roommate a pack of smokes the other day and when she went to pay me
for them I told her no, since I still owe her so much for letting me
intrude on her domestic life and she smiled and said "Oh, honey, you
have NO idea. . . when I come home and your car isn't here, I am so
disappointed." Which made me feel much better. She has repeated that
sentiment since then, along with remorse that I will leave soon. I love
Music is still a rediscovered happy thing. I found the worst mix CD of
all time today, created by me sometime last year, and it was pretty much
an attempt not to have the same songs on a mix CD that I always put on a
mix CD; in listening to it I kept thinking "damn, there is a reason this
song isn't on my usual mix CDs, because it SUCKS." I threw said CD out
the window of my car. Good riddance.
On another rediscovered mix CD I found "Screaming Infidelities" which I
listened to in stillness in my car and smiled because it feels like it
should be so pertinent, but it really doesn't resonate.
A friend told me tonight they want me in their band. We will see if
that pans out. Said friends also give THE BEST hugs. It is righteous.
I'm watching The Big Lebowski for the 18th time in three weeks, falling
asleep to The Dude, and the fucking dog with fucking papers. I need to
get my movies outta storage, but who really has that kinda time?
|Wednesday, July 25th, 2007|
The first time I met the woman they called God, she allowed me to take
her picture. She warned me it wouldn't come out, and when I looked the
next day the frame that should have held her visage held only smeared
black. She wasn't God, after all. Some said she was schizophrenic,
some said possessed. Regardless of all that, the first time I met God
she told me I was going to write the ultimate book of love.
I think the first chapter shall be entitled "Cupid's Arrow vs. Time's
Arrow: The Second Law of Thermodynamics and its Effect on a Broken
|Tuesday, June 5th, 2007|
You were my world. You've destroyed me.
|Tuesday, March 13th, 2007|
Super lame and random update blog take two:
a) To anyone who cares, I am sorry I am a bad friend. I am in the middle of studying for my Graduate Exam and don't have time to check the site. I promise that after April 6th I will resume my no life having, internet surfing ways.
2) I really, really, really need to do something about my hair color. I want to vomit every time I look in a mirror. In a similar vain (har har), whenever I look at pictures of myself I am increasingly alarmed at how old and crack ho-ish I look.
d) I love
I still maintain that a group of us should go there armed with board games and play house some day.
4) I want out of my job. It has stopped being enjoyable.
I have just begun the nervous break down portion of my exam studies. I am still in the early stages, so I am still somewhat coherent.
XIV) I like bananas.
Blue) I sometimes wish I weren't so dedicated to one tattoo artist because she rarely seems to have time for all the ideas that I have.
bullet) I wish someone would write songs about me.
Jimbo is going to come soon. I can't wait.
Cupcakes take warn.