I dream about my alarm clock a lot. Not regularly, but my dreams are never recurring on a daily level, more like the several-monthly level.
I could never figure out how to turn it off, because I don't remember how to work the button that turns off the alarm. In the bizarre dream world I keep bludgeoning the alarm clock, perhaps with some vague notion that I'll hit the snooze button. This morning, on the edge of consciousness, I dreamt of banging it so hard against a counter that the numbers shook (and for whatever reason, they were bright green). The numbers were sitting crooked in the frame, but the alarm kept going.
I woke up, and pushed switch to "off", annoyed.
7.13.2009
5.28.2009
Fail
While cleaning out my room to prepare for yet another move down the block, I found a pair of crumpled black boxer-briefs. I lifted it out of the dark corner under my bed with my finger tips, and stared at it. Medium, bought from Target, with one of those little slits in the front for dudes to take their penis out and pee.
I have no idea whose they are. At all.
What would mother say?
I have no idea whose they are. At all.
What would mother say?
2.26.2009
Broken Flowers
J always asked me about Broken Flowers.
"Oh, this is the soundtrack from that Bill Murray movie we saw at Scott Hall, do you remember?"
"I didn't see it with you."
"Really? Where were you then?"
Sometimes I wonder if J remembered perfectly well that I was following up on the night before. The night when I got so drunk off of plastic bottle vodka and cranberry juice, so confused and desperate for agency that I kissed that guy after throwing up in the hallway bathroom. ("Kiss me out of love" my unfortunate drinking buddy insisted, and I ignored him as I drew his head down and tried to prove my point, that if I'm supposedly single, then I'll act it). Did J remember walking towards the dorm with his entourage to see me pressed up against a tree, hands tangled in hair that wasn't his, eyes closed so hard that I never saw him come and go?
It was my way of stirring up stagnant waters, so that I wouldn't drown from holding my breath for him to take me seriously (and love me). I waited and waited and waited. Weeks after our first fuck, after I naively brought up the forbidden question of our status, after I started spending every night in his bed, after we held hands everywhere and kissed hello and goodbye. On facebook he was single as ever, and I checked, manically, hoping he'd surprise me one day. Give me a fucking grand romantic gesture or something. That showed me the futility in hoping so hard that expectation and anticipation taints the lightness of hope, and turned my wishing into waiting.
People wonder how cynics are made.
Cynics always start out as the most hopeful people, lifted high and light by their dreams.
That's why they fall so hard, that's why they break.
"Oh, this is the soundtrack from that Bill Murray movie we saw at Scott Hall, do you remember?"
"I didn't see it with you."
"Really? Where were you then?"
Sometimes I wonder if J remembered perfectly well that I was following up on the night before. The night when I got so drunk off of plastic bottle vodka and cranberry juice, so confused and desperate for agency that I kissed that guy after throwing up in the hallway bathroom. ("Kiss me out of love" my unfortunate drinking buddy insisted, and I ignored him as I drew his head down and tried to prove my point, that if I'm supposedly single, then I'll act it). Did J remember walking towards the dorm with his entourage to see me pressed up against a tree, hands tangled in hair that wasn't his, eyes closed so hard that I never saw him come and go?
It was my way of stirring up stagnant waters, so that I wouldn't drown from holding my breath for him to take me seriously (and love me). I waited and waited and waited. Weeks after our first fuck, after I naively brought up the forbidden question of our status, after I started spending every night in his bed, after we held hands everywhere and kissed hello and goodbye. On facebook he was single as ever, and I checked, manically, hoping he'd surprise me one day. Give me a fucking grand romantic gesture or something. That showed me the futility in hoping so hard that expectation and anticipation taints the lightness of hope, and turned my wishing into waiting.
People wonder how cynics are made.
Cynics always start out as the most hopeful people, lifted high and light by their dreams.
That's why they fall so hard, that's why they break.
2.22.2009
A Little Dignity, If You Please
I, do not, have "SLOPPY SECOND" tattooed to my forehead.
I get lonely, infatuated, and occasionally bored as often as the next single girl with bad luck. But I'll never be desperate enough to sleep with a guy who's in love with some other girl who's too uninterested to commit to him, no matter how cute he is, not matter how much I might have liked him, and wished substance could've bloomed between us.
Some things are not meant to be, others are meant to be prevented by sheer force of will.
My incredibly near-sighted sense of irresponsible fun is always egging me on to ignore my pride and just degrade myself for something barely worth degrading myself for (kind of like how I would eat undelicious things because I can tolerate it). But I know, I KNOW I'll thank myself for resisting, years down the line.
People say, you'll look back and regret missing out on those stupid decisions. Stupid people.
I get lonely, infatuated, and occasionally bored as often as the next single girl with bad luck. But I'll never be desperate enough to sleep with a guy who's in love with some other girl who's too uninterested to commit to him, no matter how cute he is, not matter how much I might have liked him, and wished substance could've bloomed between us.
Some things are not meant to be, others are meant to be prevented by sheer force of will.
My incredibly near-sighted sense of irresponsible fun is always egging me on to ignore my pride and just degrade myself for something barely worth degrading myself for (kind of like how I would eat undelicious things because I can tolerate it). But I know, I KNOW I'll thank myself for resisting, years down the line.
People say, you'll look back and regret missing out on those stupid decisions. Stupid people.
2.17.2009
It's Not Good If It Doesn't Scare Me
I'm going to be doing my biggest act of leaving in 13 years.
In a few short months, I will be embarking on a transcontinental journey away from this, from here, from...home? For all the needless imposing and projecting my mother subjects me to, I'm finally beginning to appreciate how she's pushing me to going away. I could never drag myself out of the comfort of familiarity on my own, not when life isn't choking me to death.
Some people interpret the anticipation as "thrill", and I'm finally beginning to feel it too, transformed from anxiety and fear that masked the joy of the unknown.
In a few short months, I will be embarking on a transcontinental journey away from this, from here, from...home? For all the needless imposing and projecting my mother subjects me to, I'm finally beginning to appreciate how she's pushing me to going away. I could never drag myself out of the comfort of familiarity on my own, not when life isn't choking me to death.
Some people interpret the anticipation as "thrill", and I'm finally beginning to feel it too, transformed from anxiety and fear that masked the joy of the unknown.
Collapse of Years
The span of a human life can be collapsed into a single story, or a few pages of a story, or a few paragraphs... a single sentence even. There are patterns in the ways we're lost; poetry in the irony; elegance in the failures.
But there's no beauty to be appreciated amidst the confusion. The wait for bad luck to yield to the turn of Fortune's wheel can feel unending. But we're not particles, our lives are not doomed to be diluted by entropy. I can bear to keep waiting for change, because I know nothing can last forever.
Even 12 hours can seem like eternity when you begin to wait for sunrise at sunset, but still it will come eventually.
But there's no beauty to be appreciated amidst the confusion. The wait for bad luck to yield to the turn of Fortune's wheel can feel unending. But we're not particles, our lives are not doomed to be diluted by entropy. I can bear to keep waiting for change, because I know nothing can last forever.
Even 12 hours can seem like eternity when you begin to wait for sunrise at sunset, but still it will come eventually.
2.10.2009
Finally A Dream Remained
Last night I had a dream, and forgot it in the morning as usual. But then I glanced at my camera, still sitting on the tripod from last nights attempts of photographing in dim light, suddenly a piece of the dream rushed back at me, and I had to put it down somewhere before it left me.
I dreamed of being in an industrial, post-apocalyptic landscape, alone with a dim sun shining weakly upon a shallow, clear lake. Collosal, destroyed machines are half submerged, rusting and bent beyond recognition like old carcass of dragons. I walk around the edge of the water, watching the small waves reflect flakes of greasy sun, contemplating its toxicity when the lens cap of my camera tumbles into the water, and descends serenely to the bed of pebbles at the bottom of the shallow water. It was imperative that I kept my lens flawless and covered (since, in real life, two days ago it came close to being destroyed when someone kicked it) I pace frantically in the vicinity in search of something to fish it out with, to no avail. Just as I contemplate how to reach into the water without touching my face to it, one of the machines suddenly switched on and swept the lens cap into something that resembled a storm drain at the corner of the lake. A voice tells me it's not gone, bu I must hunt for it else where now. I enter a tented space, shrowded in yellowed canvas, much like the market place in Peru, and I see a book shelf full of old tomes. On the ledge I see a plastic sleeve, and inside are flimsy looking round clear films of some stretchy material, a woman comes to me and says they're the use-and-toss variety of lens caps, and I strap one onto the lens the way you might a condom, and thinks to myself that I'll be leaving this on for a while. I was on my way to be lost in another world, and I don't remember the other happenings...but I felt that the way home is treacherous and long, and I was determined to travel it, because I knew I was alone, and the journey will not be dangerous, only long.
I dreamed of being in an industrial, post-apocalyptic landscape, alone with a dim sun shining weakly upon a shallow, clear lake. Collosal, destroyed machines are half submerged, rusting and bent beyond recognition like old carcass of dragons. I walk around the edge of the water, watching the small waves reflect flakes of greasy sun, contemplating its toxicity when the lens cap of my camera tumbles into the water, and descends serenely to the bed of pebbles at the bottom of the shallow water. It was imperative that I kept my lens flawless and covered (since, in real life, two days ago it came close to being destroyed when someone kicked it) I pace frantically in the vicinity in search of something to fish it out with, to no avail. Just as I contemplate how to reach into the water without touching my face to it, one of the machines suddenly switched on and swept the lens cap into something that resembled a storm drain at the corner of the lake. A voice tells me it's not gone, bu I must hunt for it else where now. I enter a tented space, shrowded in yellowed canvas, much like the market place in Peru, and I see a book shelf full of old tomes. On the ledge I see a plastic sleeve, and inside are flimsy looking round clear films of some stretchy material, a woman comes to me and says they're the use-and-toss variety of lens caps, and I strap one onto the lens the way you might a condom, and thinks to myself that I'll be leaving this on for a while. I was on my way to be lost in another world, and I don't remember the other happenings...but I felt that the way home is treacherous and long, and I was determined to travel it, because I knew I was alone, and the journey will not be dangerous, only long.
12.11.2008
On Living and Love
I was scolded today, gently. I'm an only child, but I suspect that this is what an older brother would say to me. He was supportive of my daring, but reprimanding in his opinion of my choice.
Let me explain:
I haven't been in a relationship in over two years, and when yet another guy sauntered into the picture and seemed to embody more than droll physicality, I panicked. I wanted it, I was afraid of it, I was afraid of...possibilities. I was afraid of the work it'd cut out for me, the imperfections and wrong paths that will not be distinguishable from the less-wrong paths. But it's like being afraid of living, being afraid of anything that's not a dead end.
Did I not despair of deadened emotions? Did I not complain endlessly about having no wear to grow emotionally? The last guy who tried to give his heart to me made me feel like I was pushed up against a wall, trying to walk through solid matter. But it was a safe feeling, the dread was a kind of grim security. There were no capriciousness of fate, only certainty. I was not happy with it, but I was no confused. I frequently forget my great fear for freedom, hiding on the flip side of my desire for love.
I initially broke things off with T because he didn't want to have a serious relationship, and my insides exploded as I remembered the knot that lived in my stomach for all the months I dreaded the day D decided to break things off with me again. I didn't want to spend my days fearing loss. After some days of consideration, I took back my words and restarted a casual thing with T, and C told me to stop selling myself short and settling.
It's true that I dislike the position of power this puts me in, the girl who asked for the guy back. It seems like a setup for power imbalance. But I feel good about this choice, because I think it was presumptuous and naive of me to expect him to commit so seriously, to expect a serious relationship to be the key to my happiness. We have something going on, and I'm willing to lift myself from the paralysis of fear, to choose a path and walk it, instead of dwelling eternally at the crossroads, waiting for the "right" path to present itself to me.
There are paths, and there's me.
Let me explain:
I haven't been in a relationship in over two years, and when yet another guy sauntered into the picture and seemed to embody more than droll physicality, I panicked. I wanted it, I was afraid of it, I was afraid of...possibilities. I was afraid of the work it'd cut out for me, the imperfections and wrong paths that will not be distinguishable from the less-wrong paths. But it's like being afraid of living, being afraid of anything that's not a dead end.
Did I not despair of deadened emotions? Did I not complain endlessly about having no wear to grow emotionally? The last guy who tried to give his heart to me made me feel like I was pushed up against a wall, trying to walk through solid matter. But it was a safe feeling, the dread was a kind of grim security. There were no capriciousness of fate, only certainty. I was not happy with it, but I was no confused. I frequently forget my great fear for freedom, hiding on the flip side of my desire for love.
I initially broke things off with T because he didn't want to have a serious relationship, and my insides exploded as I remembered the knot that lived in my stomach for all the months I dreaded the day D decided to break things off with me again. I didn't want to spend my days fearing loss. After some days of consideration, I took back my words and restarted a casual thing with T, and C told me to stop selling myself short and settling.
It's true that I dislike the position of power this puts me in, the girl who asked for the guy back. It seems like a setup for power imbalance. But I feel good about this choice, because I think it was presumptuous and naive of me to expect him to commit so seriously, to expect a serious relationship to be the key to my happiness. We have something going on, and I'm willing to lift myself from the paralysis of fear, to choose a path and walk it, instead of dwelling eternally at the crossroads, waiting for the "right" path to present itself to me.
There are paths, and there's me.
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