it strikes me, as i struggle to tear open the packaged bag (with damaged perforation, just like every bag before it in this box) of tea that is supposed to help put me to sleep-- with its spearmint and chamomile and licorice and, oh yes, plenty of valerian root-- that almost everything is funny.
it might be that everything is funny, and if something isn't, you need to be kicked in the shins by a small child.
or something.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Punk violins and dead pop heroes, two days past the new moon: I just want back in your head.
There have been several posts now that I have saved and not posted, so many things that have gone through my mind and been written but not shared. I’m mostly okay with that, but since I’m looking at the first night alone in weeks, I have some things to think about.
Mostly sad things. Ain’t that the way? There’s something about being alone in the hours of the night that are dark and quiet and in between warm and cool—especially when you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to fend off the insomnia for more than two nights in a row and you just had two nights of less-than natural sleep—something that brings out the parts of you that ask all the hard questions.
So I’m taking out my computer for the first time in weeks, completely aware of the fact that I don’t actually have Internet access on it, and though I’m tempted to search for the perfect Tom Waits song (which would express It to exactness, and I’m sure it must exist, but I don’t have it and looking will only frustrate me), I end up flipping through to find all of the songs that I used to listen to when I was sad, or to make me sad, and it makes me wonder.
I’m not sure I used to feel things as fully as I do now. I used to live inside my head (still do, mostly; only I don’t understand what’s in there), attaching myself to ideas of absent persons and using Shakespearean monologues to make myself feel something I could diagram.
There have been bad things that have happened. Bad things that I’ve done, combined with a streak of ill luck that isn’t even worth the whining. I have trouble, now, talking to people. In some ways, it’s because I don’t think they understand. There have been a lot of people with whom I used to be close that I’ve tried to tell things, and they either don’t react or they simply don’t understand. I cause them discomfort. But the bigger truth is, I don’t understand. I don’t really know if I’ve grown or changed at all, if I’ve gotten anything from these experiences, or if I’m just reproducing every tired facsimile I can remember.
It’s been about a year since I can trace it.
I wish that I knew of ways in which I’d grown. If I could find something of which I would be proud, something bigger than getting the best grades thus far in college despite the mono—something real—maybe the past wouldn’t bother me so much.
It really does. Which makes me wonder: Do I live in it? Am I as foolish as the ancient peoples my mind has collected, the ones who live in ruins and will never believe that the present or future could be as good as the past?
Can one really change if one can’t see the truth of a state of being?
Do I really drift along on the edges of things, unable to jump into a definition of self, unable to accept things like hope, too much in my head to know, or feel, or experience?
Maybe I really am living in the past, because I paused after asking the white screen that question, and listened more closely to one of those old songs, and it gave me an answer of sorts. (I wonder if that prophetic dolphin still lives in the Walker.)
It’s funny that I’m looking to songs I used to listen to a lot, especially since I haven’t really listened to much music in general of late. Not for months. I’ve even purchased music in this time, played it maybe once, and put it away.
I sort of hate the idea of tapping all this out and putting it somewhere people could see it, as I always do, but especially because this kind of truthful, questioning mood is not something I want people to witness. But to be honest, I feel myself rising in a nondramatic crescendo, approaching an unseen precipice, and I have to follow it to its end.
I hope that people remember Michael Jackson for the incredible talent he had and brought to innumerable observers, not for being damaged or for whatever allegations have been brought against him. If I could find that beautiful passage Margaret Cho wrote about listening to his records so much as an ugly, sad child that she had to buy them multiple times, I’d copy it.
It’s sad, isn’t it? Where do we lose it, that bright, confident thing he had at first? Was it a performance, or did the things that happened to him eventually outweigh whatever he had inside him? Is that how it happens? Or does it happen the way it happens to my brother and(or?) sister, how I’m scared it’s happening to me; that they can’t see themselves, and so can’t control what they’re becoming?
Why can it be that our perceptions are so volatile, so skewed, so completely unstable that even a truth told right to our faces is impossible to believe?
… And now I’m babbling. If this particular careening vehicle of thought was supposed to arrive at a conclusion, it missed.
“I.” “I.” “i.” It doesn’t seem to write well, does it? The third person is more effective when using one’s self to access other people, but I can never seem to keep my tenses straight.
Mostly sad things. Ain’t that the way? There’s something about being alone in the hours of the night that are dark and quiet and in between warm and cool—especially when you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to fend off the insomnia for more than two nights in a row and you just had two nights of less-than natural sleep—something that brings out the parts of you that ask all the hard questions.
So I’m taking out my computer for the first time in weeks, completely aware of the fact that I don’t actually have Internet access on it, and though I’m tempted to search for the perfect Tom Waits song (which would express It to exactness, and I’m sure it must exist, but I don’t have it and looking will only frustrate me), I end up flipping through to find all of the songs that I used to listen to when I was sad, or to make me sad, and it makes me wonder.
I’m not sure I used to feel things as fully as I do now. I used to live inside my head (still do, mostly; only I don’t understand what’s in there), attaching myself to ideas of absent persons and using Shakespearean monologues to make myself feel something I could diagram.
There have been bad things that have happened. Bad things that I’ve done, combined with a streak of ill luck that isn’t even worth the whining. I have trouble, now, talking to people. In some ways, it’s because I don’t think they understand. There have been a lot of people with whom I used to be close that I’ve tried to tell things, and they either don’t react or they simply don’t understand. I cause them discomfort. But the bigger truth is, I don’t understand. I don’t really know if I’ve grown or changed at all, if I’ve gotten anything from these experiences, or if I’m just reproducing every tired facsimile I can remember.
It’s been about a year since I can trace it.
I wish that I knew of ways in which I’d grown. If I could find something of which I would be proud, something bigger than getting the best grades thus far in college despite the mono—something real—maybe the past wouldn’t bother me so much.
It really does. Which makes me wonder: Do I live in it? Am I as foolish as the ancient peoples my mind has collected, the ones who live in ruins and will never believe that the present or future could be as good as the past?
Can one really change if one can’t see the truth of a state of being?
Do I really drift along on the edges of things, unable to jump into a definition of self, unable to accept things like hope, too much in my head to know, or feel, or experience?
Maybe I really am living in the past, because I paused after asking the white screen that question, and listened more closely to one of those old songs, and it gave me an answer of sorts. (I wonder if that prophetic dolphin still lives in the Walker.)
It’s funny that I’m looking to songs I used to listen to a lot, especially since I haven’t really listened to much music in general of late. Not for months. I’ve even purchased music in this time, played it maybe once, and put it away.
I sort of hate the idea of tapping all this out and putting it somewhere people could see it, as I always do, but especially because this kind of truthful, questioning mood is not something I want people to witness. But to be honest, I feel myself rising in a nondramatic crescendo, approaching an unseen precipice, and I have to follow it to its end.
I hope that people remember Michael Jackson for the incredible talent he had and brought to innumerable observers, not for being damaged or for whatever allegations have been brought against him. If I could find that beautiful passage Margaret Cho wrote about listening to his records so much as an ugly, sad child that she had to buy them multiple times, I’d copy it.
It’s sad, isn’t it? Where do we lose it, that bright, confident thing he had at first? Was it a performance, or did the things that happened to him eventually outweigh whatever he had inside him? Is that how it happens? Or does it happen the way it happens to my brother and(or?) sister, how I’m scared it’s happening to me; that they can’t see themselves, and so can’t control what they’re becoming?
Why can it be that our perceptions are so volatile, so skewed, so completely unstable that even a truth told right to our faces is impossible to believe?
… And now I’m babbling. If this particular careening vehicle of thought was supposed to arrive at a conclusion, it missed.
“I.” “I.” “i.” It doesn’t seem to write well, does it? The third person is more effective when using one’s self to access other people, but I can never seem to keep my tenses straight.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
virgin
As I was waiting for the bus just now, two women turned to me, sort of boxing me in. One of them held out her arms and said that she loved me. I thought perhaps she was a little drunk, but I hugged her lightly and thanked her.
The other woman told me that Jesus loved me, and so did she. I said that was nice. She asked if I had accepted him as my savior or whatever it is they say. I said no, that it wasn't my belief. I started to say, "thank you for your-". But I didn't know what I was thanking them for, so I trailed off and got on the bus.
Not only have I had "Like A Virgin" in my head all morning, but I have spent a good part of the past week studying a film by Su Friedrich in which she uses Catholic nuns as a vehicle to explore repressed sexual desire.
All I wish is that I knew all the lyrics....
The other woman told me that Jesus loved me, and so did she. I said that was nice. She asked if I had accepted him as my savior or whatever it is they say. I said no, that it wasn't my belief. I started to say, "thank you for your-". But I didn't know what I was thanking them for, so I trailed off and got on the bus.
Not only have I had "Like A Virgin" in my head all morning, but I have spent a good part of the past week studying a film by Su Friedrich in which she uses Catholic nuns as a vehicle to explore repressed sexual desire.
All I wish is that I knew all the lyrics....
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
tomato
My dad, today, when I told him I was making tomato soup: You wanna know what goes really well with tomato soup?
I said, "Yes. Yes I do. What?"
"A million dollars."
Since I'm scrambling to work on a three-person project alone (it is due tomorrow), it made me really happy.
"Aren't you glad you didn't just settle for the grilled cheese?"
I said, "Yes. Yes I do. What?"
"A million dollars."
Since I'm scrambling to work on a three-person project alone (it is due tomorrow), it made me really happy.
"Aren't you glad you didn't just settle for the grilled cheese?"
Sunday, February 1, 2009
the mysterious circumstances of beverly kenney
Today, someone asked if it was five dollars to get me to go home with him.
He laughed.
I haven't felt right since, and I hate him for affecting me like that, for taking power from me. I hate myself for letting him.
Days like this, you wish you either had a mean right hook or a perfect singing voice.
Mostly the punching, though.
He laughed.
I haven't felt right since, and I hate him for affecting me like that, for taking power from me. I hate myself for letting him.
Days like this, you wish you either had a mean right hook or a perfect singing voice.
Mostly the punching, though.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
vodka sadie Hawkins
I can't fucking wait for the new P.O.S. Album. I love Doomtree most because of the poetic intensity they bring to a genre that seems to be growing deader and more false by the minute.
A few of my friends, I have discovered, like me because I'm "spastic." some because they're hyper and insane, some because it simply amuses them. While I'm awfully glad I can be of service, if ever I exhibit that much outgoing energy, it's a lie. You must be a good liar if people appreciate the lie that much. Monika's birthday was lovely, but bars are weird and the vehemence of strangers more so.
I think sometimes people look for themselves in those they encounter, and those of us who perform as better mirrors will make them go all mothlike. A reflection of a thing isn't the thing itself, though, and I think the mirror people just want to see truth.
Today was beautiful. The air held such warmth and storm, and the wind was more forceful and energetic than anything I've felt in months.
A freak day.
The fun thing about copious amounts of alcohol in my presence is that I can be more honest. It doesn't loosen my dry tongue; it makes wet ears more receptive. So when someone asked me if it was whorish to find a random boy to make out with, I smiled and told her it wasn't at all. Just a little trampy, and she said she could deal with that.
Actually I quite liked her.
A few of my friends, I have discovered, like me because I'm "spastic." some because they're hyper and insane, some because it simply amuses them. While I'm awfully glad I can be of service, if ever I exhibit that much outgoing energy, it's a lie. You must be a good liar if people appreciate the lie that much. Monika's birthday was lovely, but bars are weird and the vehemence of strangers more so.
I think sometimes people look for themselves in those they encounter, and those of us who perform as better mirrors will make them go all mothlike. A reflection of a thing isn't the thing itself, though, and I think the mirror people just want to see truth.
Today was beautiful. The air held such warmth and storm, and the wind was more forceful and energetic than anything I've felt in months.
A freak day.
The fun thing about copious amounts of alcohol in my presence is that I can be more honest. It doesn't loosen my dry tongue; it makes wet ears more receptive. So when someone asked me if it was whorish to find a random boy to make out with, I smiled and told her it wasn't at all. Just a little trampy, and she said she could deal with that.
Actually I quite liked her.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
urgh.
premise 1. sometimes, i presume. which, in case you've never noticed or never actually done it, is never a good thing to do. whether it's a fact or a position of stability, you will always, always end up looking stupid.
premise 2. i think i have stopped reading novels altogether. just nonfiction, poetry, and penny-dreadfuls that i return when i'm finished in two days anyway. which, i realize, is rather dishonest. lately, i have been. but does this mean that i have no creativity left? i don't make anything anymore, don't do anything. at all.....
premise 3. i know, beyond any shadow of doubt, that i have been too wrapped up in myself for months upon months to be a good friend.
premise 4. i do things like this. instead of trying to do something good, something positive, i swap between encouraging d. to a good first day back at school and writing about what a wretched person i am.
and so, it remains to be concluded that i need a swift kick in the ass, for i am becoming quite the fuckhead.
q.e.d.
really, woman, the least you could do is get up and make yourself feel a little better. or finish alphabetizing your books. ass.
premise 2. i think i have stopped reading novels altogether. just nonfiction, poetry, and penny-dreadfuls that i return when i'm finished in two days anyway. which, i realize, is rather dishonest. lately, i have been. but does this mean that i have no creativity left? i don't make anything anymore, don't do anything. at all.....
premise 3. i know, beyond any shadow of doubt, that i have been too wrapped up in myself for months upon months to be a good friend.
premise 4. i do things like this. instead of trying to do something good, something positive, i swap between encouraging d. to a good first day back at school and writing about what a wretched person i am.
and so, it remains to be concluded that i need a swift kick in the ass, for i am becoming quite the fuckhead.
q.e.d.
really, woman, the least you could do is get up and make yourself feel a little better. or finish alphabetizing your books. ass.
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