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|Monday, August 7th, 2006|
|patience is a virtue
that i am beginning to regret the absence of less and less. patience for me is a random happening, a marker for what truly interests me, and what is probably worth my while to pursue. i am patient with music, and with some people, but certainly not with ESL students...is that a sign that i shouldn't be traveling to other countries to teach english?
redlands is a desolate desert town, with people who have accepted their desolation, and forgotten about it. the sun is an overripe orange, -in fact, everything is oranges, filling the town with the scent of sweet juice they can never taste. in all of my time living there, i never once ate an orange, but i smelled the orange groves all summer long and wondered what their toil was for. by their, i mean the migrant workers that labored for less than minimum wage during the harvest. i remember things randomly discarded among the groves: recliners, mattresses, bags of leaves and garbage and clothing, the remnants of people slowly shedding the anchors of domestic life (what?). folks of varying assortments and agendas passed through the groves, but always for the same main objective: to kill time and avoid the heat. the people i came there with wanted to get high out of sight, and i personally wanted to smell the oranges up close, and to observe my new acquaintances in their natural element. one of them was a gangly pale girl named fionna. she lived next door to me, but never really spoke to me unless we ran into eachother in public. it was as if we were perfectly anonymous people with hardly a thing in common, despite going to the same school, living on the same block, and both being the only daughters of single mothers. until social circumstances brought us face to face, we were strangers to one another. that day, she and i were introduced by another of our mutual acquaintances, and we both nodded expressionlessly to eachother and looked off into opposite directions. fionna had some weed, and her friend dee brought a glass pipe that her brother had dropped in the laundry room. she told us that it would have meant a beating for both of them if their mother had found it, so she thought it better to keep it safe among her own things rather than let her brother leave it carelessly somewhere else. i thought it was kind of unneccessary for her to explain herself, since she was already smoking illegal drugs and everything, making any other crime seem insignificant in comparison. it dawned on me then that, here, theft was a serious offense and drug use was a common theme of recreation; in my house hold it was entirely the opposite.
fionna led the way, dee followed behind her, and bret, a tall boy with a complexion much like the gravel we were walking on, strayed a bit behind, yet was still ahead of me. his eyes watched the ground a few paces before him and i took a moment to follow his gaze, half-expecting to see something strange or fantastic in the dirt. all i saw were the soles of dee's plastic flip-flops as they clapped between the ground and her calloused heels. the heat was like a heavy wool blanket that is worn so often its presence is forgotten. especially when you stay in motion, you lose touch with just how dense the air is with warmth, and it is only when you pause to tie your shoe that sweat accumulates and breathing becomes difficult. no matter how wide-open the fields were, the heat made you feel trapped and hopeless. we dragged our feet through dry soil, swallowing our spit like some pasty salline drink and dreaming of ice-cold enimas (what?). dee told us that she once passed out from the heat. her brother found her in the backyard hanging wet laundry. she said that by the time he found her, all the sheets were dry as a bone in the basket, but he had to use the hose to douse her, and wetted them all over again. nobody laughed, but i wanted to, but could not afford the energy to do it. i wondered then how many emotions were too costly to express out here.
the groves were sparse rows of green hair sprouting unnaturally from the barren scalp of the horizon. the rows were laden with scant, stuffy shade which heralded promises of the unpredictable and often pungeant artifacts of its transient inhabitors(...). as we neared the railroad tracks, dee told us about the time she found an entire set of china on the other side of the groves. she said the set had been laid out perfectly, with leaves folded like napkins and tucked beneath puter forks, and a gravy boat and turkey platter sitting right in the middle. our caravan slowed down considerably as she said this so that we could all give sardonic looks, but she seemed not to notice. i didn't really want not to believe her, because i enjoyed the imagery of it. i was almost moved to speak, maybe to suggest that a family of invisible hobos was eating their transparent dinner, but i didn't. dee could handle disapproving looks much better than i could, at least while i was sober.
we passed over some train tracks, which meant we were nearly there. the heat of the rails showed me how cheap my shoesoles were, almost burning right through to my feet. i held my foot down against one of them for as long as i could, but my i could feel my weight sliding as the rubber began to melt, and lept down onto the gravel. the fertile soil began abruptly, and the four of us stood directly on the seam and peered into the groves. fionna ventured in first, and we all stepped after her, each in our own good time. the groves were so colorful in comparison to the dry concrete and chalky gravel of the town. it was like disappearing into a technicolor movie where everything is overly done, and every action and word seems at once more meaningful and less real. fionna and dee took off running after a few paces in, rustling skiddishly amidst the leaves. bret and i lost sight of them, but i could hear that they were racing, and fionnas flipflops clapped further and further into the distance, while dee's boots dug heavily into the soil at a slower and slower pace, until finally their stopped. finding dee was easy, as her shoes left large checkered patterns in the fertilizer.
|Saturday, August 5th, 2006|
every time i feel competitive with someone or something i have to look at something organic until it goes away. every time i feel sad for no good reason i have to think of things that make me genuinely happy, or play music with my fingers that articulates the sadness. it has worked so far, and i have begun spring cleaning in the homestretch of summer. it is weird to be in such a quiet place for so long after everything has been loud and fast. no school, no voices, no obtrussive radio stations or stinky food or aggressive pigeons. the clicking of fingers on keys is nice, almost palpable once they really get going, and all of the road noises have become a collective unabbreviated sigh that gets more or less satisfying with each turn of the traffic lights. i haven't used any electricty to light my rooms today...something about the reliance upon sunlight makes me more aware of how long an hour is, and how much you can get done, or how relaxing it is just to be at rest.
i played last night, stoned off of my ass, and all of this music came out, all of these chords made sense, it was like my fingers knew the way, they were interpreting the oscilations of my paranoid and permeable (i don't want to say heart or soul, but what else is there?) soul. today, all of it stuck, and i am still writing, this time about my father and how it felt to watch him tuck in his youngest daughter before bed and kiss her goodnight. i don't want to sound bitter, but so what if i am? i need to bleed, even if no one else hears it, although they will. i am bringing my new material to India's tomorrow night.
it should be fun. all of these artists (mostly older than i am) and their creations, like a big pot-luck show-and-tell kind of a thing. i want some feedback, but not a lot. i am going to be quiet and absorbant tomorrow, the way i have felt for the last month or so (even if i haven't seemed it).
older women are strange to me, i sort of relinquish all of mysels -my thoughts, my emotions, my tribulations, my opinions- when i am with certain older women, and then they give me their advice or understanding. sometimes i sense left-handed compliments and resentments, even irritation...i wonder how much of what i sense is real, and how much of it are vestiges of a dysfunctional past. i love genessa, but we will never be the same together. neither will ana and i, or stephen and i, or mom and i, or grandma and i. or i. growing up is weird.
|Thursday, August 3rd, 2006|
|completely unorganized ramblings before class
the girl with quick fingers was on this computer. i wanted to use it on a whim as i walked by, because i believe that things can absorb people's energy. i looked at her when i got up from typing, and she had deep hollow eyes, and suddenly her quick typing made sense, because her eyes looked like they were filled with a lot of thought. she came into the tutoring center later and i saw her again, she is pale and kind of somber. she shut this computer down after she was done with it, but i sat and waited for it to boot up. for some reason this seemed relevant, and so did the woman with one leg who i met in front of the teriyaki(sp?) place.
She reminded me instantly of my pigeon. She moved slowly, and she had these languid wandering eyes that were less weary, and more confused than my pigeon's. she had a walker and a box of stuff on it that served as a chair when she wasn't in motion. it took me several minutes of talking politely with her to realize that she had a prosthetic leg. the foot was blue and the calf was white, and it looked like she had hypothermia or something. she immediately mentioned her problem, but didn't say what it was, just gestured down to her walker as she spoke. she said that she got a lot of nasty looks from people who think she is homeless just because she has a walker. i told her i didn't think she looked homeless. she looked southern, though, like she spent some time on countrty roads, her hair was the color of wheat that grows on a farm, that is chewed by cows and ducks. she looked like she was growing out of the earth for a second, when she bent over a little as the wind blew, and it was a warm wind that seemed to lead her head this way or that. she was looking for her ride, but she wasn't homeless. she said she went to gay bars to drink coffee, and i told her that i like gay bars because i can wear whatever i want and no one cares. she agreed, and we had a warm laugh that seemed almost friendly. i drew a picture of her. she said she hasn't been in seattle since the late 80's, and that they cleaned it up considerably. it used to look older. she smoked and watched for her friend, and then her phone rang and i felt out of place. she didn't seem to be growing out of the earth any more, and i could tell that she felt lost on this street, even if she spent time on it many years before. it felt weird to think that i had grown up and learned the guitar and lost my virginity all in the time that she moved away from seattle and come back...she didn't seem that much older than i was, but she was. i looked down at the drawing i had done, and it made her look older than she did when i was talking to her.
a man with that genetic disease that causes all of your tendons to tighten up (especially your achillese) walked by with a dog, and he tied the dog up in front of the teriyake place and went into the smoke shop. i was eating chicken, and the dog had a pair of those eyebrows that always tip up imploringly, as if you just did something to break its heart every time it looks at you, and i couldn't stand it...animals can look so emotional when they are just checking you out nonchalantly. so i threw him a piece of chicken, and he ate it so readily, and sniffed the ground expecting more, but i couldn't justify giving him more. i imagined the little man that owned him coming out just as his dog began siezing with soy-sauce-allergies and looking at me with those same imploring eyebrows...so i saved my chicken, even as the dog stared me down with his tongue wagging in the air. and when the man untied him, his dog ran over to me like we were best friends, and he got embarrased and scolded him, until i told him that i had fed him a piece of meat. the man was nice, the dog was nice, and i watched them walk away. the man bobbed whenever he took a step, because his achilles' tendons were as tight as rubber bands. i met a guy with even worse tendons. he said that stretching was so painful that he didn't ever do it, but that if he did do it it would lessen the tension in his legs and arms, and it would give him a better quality of life. still, he said that it was hard to find the strength to do it, because it put him in such immediate pain. every day he didn't stretch, the harder and tighter his tendons would get until he couldn't stand, and he had to stretch them out all at once. sometimes i forget how lucky i am, and it seems grotesque and shameful to make an analogy out of that much pain, but i will anyway...we all have some kind of gnawing ailment that needs tending, whose immediate treatment is laborious and often unjustifiable to the impulsive and whimsical mind. anything with long-term benefits that hurts in the mean time is very difficult for me to keep up with.
the first thing i can really rememeber doing that was the good kind of painful was training the tips of my fingers on the guitar. callouses are very hard to acheive, and they look and feel ugly, and they are a pain in the ass when they start to peel. but to even get one takes hours over days over weeks over months of painfully pressing your skin against thin metal wires. it felt like a massage with barbed wire or some kind of tetanus (sp?) shot that didn't puncture your skin but took months to seep in, and left the same achy bruisiness behind. what was really impossible was how long it took to actually play something well. powerchords, probably the least painful of any guitar chord, are the simplest building block of any rock song, and they compose most of what self-taught guitar players play in their first two or three years of playing. when i finally was able to play a song all the way through, all the pain seemed worth it...i'll bet if i had more friends i would have given up after the first month. there is nothing like the pain of boredom to put physical pain into perspective.
|more, because i am fluid now
the pigeon...i wrote about him when it was happening, and it seemed mushy and unfocused. perhaps this will be less mushy, and therefore less unfocused (the storm of typing is starting up again, but i don't care because i really do have something to say and i am not showing off). he was by himself -this is what made me notice him. he looked like a piece of garbage or an overused stuffed animal who is saggy and without shape. i stopped because it was weird that he was laying there, and i wanted him to get up and be a normal, personalityless pigeon. but he stayed still. i walked nearer, he puffed up, his eye was slanted and wary, but tired. so i sat down, and that day i randomly had chips in my bag. after i threw a few down i realized what was wrong, as he tried to reach them without moving his body, and the mangy feathers along his neck fanned out as he craned it to peck at them. i almost swallowed my tongue i was so saddened (really). his legs were horribly swollen and gnarled, and he couldn't stand on them, so he couldn't perch in trees or anything, and just laid there. i wanted to pick him up and hold him, or put him out of his misery, but i never thought to actually intervein beyond giving him some crumbs of chips. later on, people would ask me why i didn't put him in a shoe box and give him to a veterenarian or something. i would be confused and a bit insulted at that question, at first offended with myself, and then with the askers. but then, i was just still and amazed, and unaware for a few moments that other people were probably noticing some girl sitting in the grass near the sidewalk looking at a bird as if it were giving its last will and testament. in a way, it was, and i wanted to be there for it. with every movement it made, i felt all the more a part of its life, and more and more concerned with seeing it through. i saw something dying inside of it, right along side the perservering awareness of its surroundings, its instincts, its need to keep clean (well, as clean as pigeons are) and fed, and all of that. it was preening all of the time, even as the other pigeons stayed away from it and ignored it...but for some reason, it was not afraid of me. as more of the crumbs fell, and less of them were in his reach, some of the other pigeons took notice and flew down to steal them. and then there were five, six, seven of the, surrounding him without seeing him, stepping on him for the food he could not reach himself...it was disturbing and very dramatic, and so much a parable of how i sometimes see my life, especially at that time. my head was dipping under the current of unfinished assignments and days without practice. i was in ASL class, and was finding it very difficult to be passionate about the language. this is my problem, i can't do things because they need to be done. i have to be excited about it, and optimistic, and passionate, and impatient to see the results. i am very much still a little girl inside.
this is perhaps why the pigeon drew me in so quickly and so completely. i saw him suffering, and he seemed so much an animal that he wasn't angered by the injustice of the healthy pigeons stealing his food. he seemed so passive, and i realized later on that he would do the same thing to another pigeon if his feet were working and the others' wasn't. the whole thing made me very quiet and unsettled. i didn't know what i was going to do, until suddenly this big white dog ran up to where i was sitting and scared all of the pigeons away. i didn't notice the dog, only that the pigeons errupted in a loud flappy fluttering, leaving the grass , and me. i looked around, and the hurt one was gone, had taken flight just as swiftly as the rest, and was no where to be seen. above me, they were just an ocean of grey wings, and none of them looked sickly or unable to survive...i felt sickly though, suddenly aware that i was missing another ASL class, and that i had spent the entire time watching a bird.
it isn't that dramatic. i just decided to start trying in school, you know, since there are only 15 days left in the quarter including weekends. this means i will spend one or two days doing hardcore assignment make up, and spend a few hours here and there with a tutor. i have already explained to those that care that my grade will not be as fancy as last quarter's. my gpa is not entirely ruined.
also, and possibly more interestingly so, i have decided not to comepte with people around me because they are just as insecure and strange as i am. sometimes i imagine that the current of people trying so hard is completely within my power, kind of like the bell curve in a class...the harder i try, the harder everyone else tries...is it pathetic to need these delusions of how much the world relies upon you? for instance, it is silent in this library, and i happen to be a quick typer, especially when i am doing something stream of consciousness...so...whenever i type at full speed, the girl in front of me starts typing at full speed and then i realize that it is a race and i have to keep going with my thought and i can't pause to erase and i everyone around me starts to notice how frantically we both are typing...but then i slow down to about a quarter of how quickly i want to go...and the storm of busy fingers dies down to a soft pattering....the calm of thoughts collecting is as heavy as the fingerfalls, and things are going at their respective speeds. sometimes i think that competitiveness is like the sour smell i sometimes get a wiff of, and i imagine that it is coming from me, and that other people around me can smell it, and then i go to great lengths to remove it or avoid it, and then i realize later on that no one could smell it but me.
i have been reading this book called 'extremely loud and incredibly close' and it is definitely having an effect on my offhand writing style. i use less periods, more commas, and have this sudden urge to abandon all punctuation. but i keep the apostrophes. when i was very young, my mother was asking my brother a question. he is three years older, and i must have been about four, and the answer was 'apostrophe', and he couldn't get it. and i said it, very plainly and quietly. it was dark in the living room and i was partially watching tv, but always with half of my attention on what the two of them were talking about. they fascinated me, always discussing politics and social matters, even little things like how to set the time on a vcr. i was the cute and dumb one who did randomly amazing things that freaked the both of them out. so when i said 'apostrophe', they stopped in their tracks and all the attention was one me. there is a correclation between the vividness of my memories, and the times when the most amount of attention is focused on me. i would have hated to admit it before, but now it doesn't bother me, because they are both on the other side of the country, and i am writing to no one, and everyone...that is the magic of the internet. who knows who will see it?
i was talking to john yesterday (or early this morning, whichever) and he and i both talked about wanting to be child prodigies. i told him that sometimes i was, because i'd come up with these sporradic pieces of writing that would take all of the attention from everything around me. sometimes i think i used my creative energy that way, to get as much of the amazement and awe that was possible in any given situation at the same time. i live for those moments, perhaps because i have been underestimated for so much of my life...or perhaps it is because i just like impressing people. the former makes more sense, since i have endured (and inspired) a lot of teasing and insults and tramplings of self-esteem. it was like a sport sometimes, and i was the goal, or the football, or the scoreboard...i don't know...it was always a resting perdiod, when these people would make fun of me...i was laying low until the next big amazement. sometimes it would be in the form of the morning announcements which would randomly say my name as the winner of the annual reflections contest. or sometimes it would be in the form of a multi-syllabic answer to a question that was rhetorical because the teacher didn't expect anyone to know the answer. sometimes it was in the form of strange behavior, these times happened more than any other, and the attention and amazement would be negative. i still lapped it up...i was like some weird little animal that lived off of the wide-eyed stares of people, and i hybernated in the solitude of friendless and imaginitive afternoons and talking-myself-to-sleep nights, until something out of my subconscious would reach like a great visceral arm and grab everything by the balls (or vag's, whichever) and hold them there for a few minutes, or maybe longer.
for instance: i went to bellevue highschool when i was 17 and 18 years old. i had to repeat the eleventh grade because i had moved so much during the previous years. it was a fucked up time, and i didn't have any friends. i had sort of graduated from being the laughing stock, to being the one that people were aware of but never really spoke to. sometimes people would notice me, and i had a few people that talked to me every day. people kind of knew that i was a musician, but i didn't go to school often enough to be anything else to them. perhaps that was better. my first big amazement was during the martin luther king assembly, when i was given the chance to play a song in front of about 1300 people. i played 'redemption song', and my dad was there with the camcorder, which actually amazed me. he never did anything like that, especially during office hours. it went well, and people started to notice me. it didn't seem to matter as much to me then as it would have if i was still in middle school...i had begun to take the stares of teenagers for granted, or maybe just started seeing them for what they were really worth. i played during the talent show, but it was a very brief and silly performance which i didn't put much in to...it was more practice for me...during school i can remember speaking during english classes about 'the lord of the flies', because i loved that book and had read it many times before the teacher assigned it....
at the end of the year, i played a song during the last assembly...i really tried during that performance, i wanted to make people cry. i remember rewriting the words to a song by The Verve, words about sentiment and coming of age. i had nothing to draw from when i wrote the words, but despite the cliched nature of them, they went over well. people actually listened and were silent...it was like getting high, or eating pure chocolate for five minutes. it was incredible.
i wonder how much character this kind of addiction builds, or destroys. i wonder if there is more to life, and sometimes i watch people who are humble, who never speak in class, who don't really care what they look like...i see that some of those people are happy and content, and are reviered among their friends. i wonder what it would be like if i wasn't a performer, and i can't really think of anything at all...maybe i don't have as good of an imagination as i thought.
|Tuesday, July 25th, 2006|
|So long since I've written here
Well, not that long. There are so many mixed opinions about blogs. Some people thing they should only be posted when there is something important to say...and obviously, and overwhelmingly, others think that the internet needs to know and actually cares about every aspect of their lives, including bodily functions. Where do I stand? Well I teeter between sharing way too much, and then going back and making a lot of the shit private. I feel like everyone is going to read what I write, and so I can't be completely candid. As for my bodily functions, most people know about them via proximity, so I don't need to recant them here.
I actually watched the news yesterday, and I have decided once again that I hate this country. Most of what made me angry about it was the way in which it was reported. The whole synopsis of the middle-east crises smacked of media filters and general ignorance. It isn't as if I have all of the details myself, but I can tell when someone is bullshitting me. As the newscaster went on I gradually became aware of how many Americans were eating all of it up like grits and gravy, and I felt like I was living on an island.
Global warming...It is happening!
Little Man Tate: A heartwarming and quirky film about a seven year old genius whose life-goals shift from wanting to be a normal child, to wanting everyone around him to understand his intellect, to wanting nothing more than the arms of a warm, loving maternal figure. Man, I love this film, and I started writing lyrics about it. I think it is going to be a mushy song, but I'll at least be able to sing it with passion.
John Elliot: This guy I was scheduled to play a gig with earlier this month became a really good friend of mine. He is so charming and passionate and funny! He really influenced me a lot, not only as a really cool personality, but also as a musician who decided to make a living out of his passion. I hope he makes it, and by makes it I mean ends up sticking with it. I don't think any of my talented musical acquaintances will ever be featured in Vogue or an MTV special, nor will their music be used to sell phones or cars or diapers. Thank fucking god for that fact. And it is my unwillingness to compromise, or perhaps my inability to stifle myself, that will never allow for me to sell out in these ways either. I can't even kiss ass enough to be a scenester.
So I have been hanging out with my gay friends. I say gay friends because they are all gay, and they identify with eachother in this way more than any other. I do not say this to label them or make them feel boxed in. However, sometimes when I refer to them as 'gays' or when I make a joke that is funny because I am surrounded by gays, I feel that it doesn't go over very well. Maybe it is because they are all young, or maybe it is because I am being insensitive. I don't know, but I am slowly beginning to care more and more about this. I still don't want to stop calling them gays. I think it is funny. Plus sometimes I feel singled out because I have a vagina, and I let them make jokes and stuff. Does this make it right? No, but it does make for engaging humorous commentary, a little bit of blood on the teeth while we're laughing. Does that make sense?
Yesterday I didn't even go into work, but instead sat in with my friend's art class. Guess who was there? None other than my boss, who as it turns out is taking the same class this quarter. I spent the first two hours of the class hoping she wouldn't see me or acknowledge me. Then, I sort of lost my nerve and went over to her. I am not fired after all, but I am rescheduled to work less hours on tuesdays. Man this summer rocks.
|Tuesday, February 21st, 2006|
|A night in the dregs
I bombed a math test and then flew sky high in guitar lessons. Non profits did wonders for my outlook, made me feel invested in the future. And then I spent 15 bucks at the door of Deja Vu, or 'the vu' as the regulars call it. And things changed quickly. Outside the place it smelled so strongly of piss, like a gerbil's cage that hadn't been cleaned in too long. Lanky women in boas walked from the doors, fully clothed, yet swaggering as if they were still asserting themselves on the catwalk, their eyes nude and searching our faces for some kind of approval. Or maybe I was just drunk. Ben had a water bottle filled with vodka, and we were swigging it like cough medicine until he was done sucking down cigarettes. Inside, the lights were dark, the women were so bare, and the men were ashamed to be alive. Stll, they sat and watched as girl after girl took her place on the stage and suffered through two songs. Some of them searched the crowd with a prowess, deciding which portion of the room to point their ass at. I couldn't help but feel a part of some great and perverse social experiment, with dollar bills as rienforcement for our drugged up and underfed subjects to continue debasing themselves, making the most sensetive and private parts of themselves vulnerable to the room. I felt, after a while, removed from it all, withdrawn. Maybe the strobe lights dulled my conscience, or maybe I was so consumed with keeping Ben subdued that the degradation flew under my radar.
I don't know what to say. We talked about travelling and what it meant to Ben. arrive, meet, and go, arrive, meet, and go, over and over without ever planting roots. Sure, it's a way to maintain freedom from societal shackles, but it also leaves so much of our needs as humans unfulfilled. I tried to explain to him that leaving all the time would deprive a person of valuable self knowledge. I was about to tlel him that I learn the most about myself when I am truly involved in another person's life, when I have concern for them, and when I am engaged in what is going on. But the subject changed again, he fell against the car and spoke in circles for a few minutes. Finally, he told me that he felt unfulfilled, that he felt as if nothing would ever satisfy him, and that he was an alien in his environment. We cannot have it all. I choose stability, safety, self exploration and self absorbtion. These things are as temporary and functional for me as Ben's vagrant lifestyle is for him, yet when this lifestyle becomes obsolete, the seeds of something much deeper and more fulfilling will have been planted by it.
I told him that he will be many different people before the age of thirty, that his world view will shift like a kaliedascope of variables over the constant elements of his personality. The pieces will be the same, but they will be forever in a state of reorganization and resettlement. Nothing is for certain, and nothing is permanent. ASs long as we navigate with the surface level, basser parts of ourselves, and deny our minds the privelege of delving deeper, we will continue as slaves to our animal selves, satiating only in the moment, building only upon typical and limiting skills that any other speciese relies upon for survival. It can all be summed up in the rippling of a stripper's ass, vaguely puckered with the beginnnings of old-age and celulite. She will continue to present it, to sap it like a piece of fruit before the shallow, depraved eyes of equally hollow people until it is withered, and this approach will leave her, quite suddenly, destitute, with nothing else to sustain her, and no deeper understanding of herself to console her. The possessions I seek are those that will stay with me when everything else leaves, the things that are present when everyone else has gone, when I have forgotten all my notes at home. When I have nothing to show for myself, they are there, and I have confidence in them to carry me through most anything.
|Thursday, October 13th, 2005|
| || || The Wild Rose |
Random Brutal Love Dreamer (RBLDf)
shmolorful, but unpicked. You are The Wild Rose.
Prone to bouts of cynicism, sarcasm, and thorns, you excite a certain kind of woman. Hoping to gather you up, she flirts and winks and asks you out, ultimately professing her love. Then you make her bleed. Why? Because you're the rare, independent, self-sufficient kind of woman who does want love, but not from a weakling.
You don't seem to take yourself too seriously, and that's refreshing. You aren't uptight; you don't over-plan. Romance-wise, sex isn't a top priority--a true relationship would be preferable. For your age, you haven't had a lot of bonafide love experience, though, and this kind of gets to core of the issue. You're very selective.
The problem is them, not you, right? You have lofty standards that few measure up to. You're out there all right, but not to be picked up by just anyone.
| Your exact opposite: |
The Dirty Little Secret
Deliberate Gentle Sex Master
"You're never truly single as long as you have yourself."
ALWAYS AVOID: The Dirty Little Secret
CONSIDER: The Sudden Departure.
Link: The 32-Type Dating Test by OkCupid - Free Online Dating.
My profile name: carvngintowater
Performing was a strange mixture of ecstacy and...defeat. I froze on stage when I couldn't get through my new song. It began nicely enough, with the audience composed mainly of friends. They were expectant not of my talent, but that I be myself and gain experience by going through this little performance. I dressed nicely, and my boots made me so tall. Still, my friends considered me doll-like and endearing. That word seems to pop up a lot now. So I went on and played the first song with little emotion. The jitters of being under the spot light were enough to squelch all passion. Next, however, came the ripeness and excitement of the new song, too fresh yet to be over done. I wanted to nail it, I wanted them to feel what i felt when I first heard it. So I began, and was feeling rather good about the direction of things. But my eyes kept wandering, and my mind couldn't collect the words of the chorus. So I paused and cursed, smiled bashfully and announced that I would start it again. So I did, and found myself in the same predicament, only far more frustrated. I paused, my hand on my forehead, talking myself through the awkwardness. I felt like a parent admonishing a child in public, only I was the only one on stage. Then I just stood and walked out. I tossed my guitar on a couch and slammed the door of a bathroom. Any dark quiet place would do; I was looking to crumple, and crumple fully in the only way I knew how: by myself. The bathroom smelled like shit. I focused on stiffling the sobs until they were sharp inward gasps, and nothing more. I kept saying how much I had wanted this, how much I wanted to play and to show case my song and to impress everyone out there. But my professional facade fell to pieces in front of them. How could they respect me? And how could I respect myself? I felt like a parent neglecting the needs of her child, only I was the only one in the bathroom. Two women who had come from my work to see me were standing outside the door. I didn't want to see them. But then this random guy opened the door and walked in. He was cute in the face and smiled easily. I looked up from the floor, crumpled as I was. I must have looked pathetic, but somehow I felt beautiful...fragile. Still, I was a wretched wretched joke of a musician for leaving the stage. He just knelt down and told me that everyone has these moments. He told me how much everyone wanted me to be up there, how they loved hearing me. I felt like a little child, but at the same time I felt like a child who was learning from pain. I stood up and decided to go back on. My mascara was all over my face, and my guitar looked deflated and abused, lying hap-hazardly on the couch. I picked it up with remorse and tenderness and walked back out there.
The song went off without a hitch finally. My voice could not withold passion now, for it was brimming inside of me and bubbling over onto the audience. It was so quiet and my voice was so clear. I only played two more songs after that, but they went well, and were sung with so much feeling. I will not soon forget that night.
Then I went to Andrew's and recorded 'The Tide'. he says he will get KEXP to play it. I'm not getting my hopes up at all. I just want a copy to send to my mom.
|Tuesday, October 11th, 2005|
New music is always good. I have Scabbies. Stephen wouldn't admit that I caught it from him when I slept next to him during his mysterious time of itching and tiny red bumbs. Still, after hours of arguing, he wouldn't take responsibility for at least contracting the parasites. Magically, he had a tube of scabbies cream, and I am sitting with it now, waiting for the time when I can wash it off. Like the ants that invaded my kitchen, I am secretly imagining thousands of tiny bug bodies succumbing to the poison I inflicted upon them, and it is satisfying. Being human is quite fun sometimes, though I know that using chemical warfare against ones unwitting enemies is a bit more American than anything else. I just hope the damn cream works.
I tried to play my new song at the open mic, but She Who Will Not Be Named took her usual post a yard and a half away from me and directly in my line of vision and persisted in talking and laughing very loudly. Of course by the time I got on stage the bar was veritably empty, and I was in my own silence, save for her laughter and banter. Then, as I attempted to ignore this and play to the only two people listening, she paused to take in my song, and then waiting for the quietest point in the chorus to shout out some stupid sex punn about one of my words. The line was "calm time", and she said loudly "Cum time?!" I paused, having been blinked out of the mood I was trying to create, and the more I thought to regain it, the more I realized it was gone. I was so mad that I left the stage and, eventually, the bar, without saying good bye. Oh well, Andrew called me later.
He is revealing himself as more and more of a musical equal with me. I think he wants to make music with me, but I am so skeptical because of the business. He has been in it a while, and people steal stuff all the time. We got such a good recording of 'The Tide' that I am worried he could just copywright it in his name and then have it for his own. But he wouldn't do that. He wants to make good music with me, and he said he wants to make me a star. I don't know about promoting myself beyond what I am already doing. Many of my friends feel like I should be doing more to get my music out there. My mother has discouraged me at nearly every turn, except she is glad that I am performing, and wants me to continue to play the guitar. I would like to be a musician, but in order to do that I must learn the circle of fifths. Yesterday I broke down and cried after reintroducing myself to the circle of fifths. I am so touchy! Oh well, today is another day. I am going to look at it again.
Wednesday is the show at the Jewel Box. I've told so many people about it, maybe some of them will actually show up! Glee!
|Sunday, October 9th, 2005|
take a look at my bones
they lost to concrete
guess that means that they're hardened fully
i bring myself to the cliff
to the point of severance
what a tiny little life i lead
my own flea circus amuses me
we break in the strangest ways
i figured once would be enough
i can't remember the path, i can't remember my name
i'm used to pain
is this a comfort or a means to find
a thread bare, a crooked gear
I'm thriving in vain?
if it's always gonna be this hard to find
a like mind, a calm time
|Saturday, October 8th, 2005|
|isolation makes for angry drunks
everywhere i go people are fucking and frollicking and falling infatuation. and i feel like i'm shriveling inside, wadding back up into a disgruntled flower bud. fuck this shit. FUCK IT. everyone wants me to know how glorious their relationships are, how enriched they have become from having regular sex and someone to tell them they don't look fat before they leave the house. i ran into anthony again. he said his phone was shut off and that he wanted to call me. then my phone died that night. i suggested that he come by my work again and he didn't show up. so i got hammered at work and then wandered to the gay bar, then followed heather and some old bf of hers home. they fucked, i slept on the couch. i could hear the vibrator from one floor bellow and two rooms over. seattlites are discrete about everything, even the mundane and useless details of their lives, but when it comes to fucking, i feel like every couple (including my neighbors and close friends) require that people hear the raunchy sounds of their fucking. it brings them added joy to know that other people are shifting nervously, trying to ignore the groan and creak of bed springs and the vibrato of forced faux-orgasmic moaning. if i ever have sex again, which does not seem too likely, i'll find some quiet room with sound-proof walls and no windows. i'll drag his ass to the top of mt rainier if i have to, but damnit i will not become another desperate boring couple whose only sense of excitement and satisfaction is derived from fooling others into believing they are having good sex. somewhere, someone is having amazing sex, but if it is truly amazing then we won't need to hear about it. im so mad. i was beginning to accept the fact that anthony didn't like me. and then we meet up randomly at sccc. he called me over, and i didn't see him until then so he at least initiated our chance encounter. maybe he just got drunk somewhere else and didn't have the energy to show up? i don't know, but tonight i feel like he is going to come to my work again. god i felt sexy last night. i feel sleeker, somehow feline in my body. i move like a panther (an awkward, disproportionate panther). the end. time to clean my apartment really well.
|Thursday, September 29th, 2005|
|It feels late
I met up with an old friend on the bus. The day was turning sour until that moment, and I remembered how pleasant the unexpected can be. I usually make more of things than they are, which allows for good memories. Is that sad? Anthony, with deep eyes always searching for meaning, calculating the value of things...lips thicker than most and gentle over words, breathing them almost so that they are nearly a part of the humming buss's motor. You smiled endearingly at me, and I felt immortal, unashamed of my awkwardness, as if I struck a familiar chord in you...reminding you of your youth, which is still very much about you. Again, I read so much into it, yet I feel that our bond is made of more than just mutual attraction. It is my discovery of poetry's wonders, and his ongoing romance with such things. I am embarking on a journey that is, for him, many years in the traveling. We have crossed paths several times over the past two years, and to him I am perhpas just a starry eyed lit major, like so many others he has met. Still, I hoped that we would take a shine to me. He gave me the name Paublo Neruda, and his own e-mail address, and spoke briefly of a school in Seattle called Antioch. Then I had to get off the bus.
Paublo Neruda is fantastic. The poem entitled "Poetry" described my epiphany over the preface to "Early Frost" with startling accuracy. Although many of these kindred minds are long dead, their thoughts are like breaths of air. Sometimes it feels like the blinking of my internal eye, a periodic remoistening of the visceral retina which has newly begun to absorb and synthesize this world. My inner self is gasping for nourishment. I hope Anthony e-mails me back. If he does not, I will just consider our encounter a blessing, for it brought the name Neruda, and renewed my hope of finding more people like me in this city.
|Saturday, September 24th, 2005|
|Nine Inch Nails
Last night was euphoric. I went to my first NiN concert with Will. Words would cheapen the experience, but I must say that the experience was uplifting in many different ways. I still feel buoyant, some how above the fray, after hearing so much music. Being completely sober, I had only my five senses and my wits about me to drink in the mania of lights and rhythm. And Trent Reznor was a god. It was the closest to prayer that I have ever been, and I was singing to a person who was just like me.
The concert brought a sense of unity to all of this rebellion. The social themes in some of Trent's songs, well, all of them, speak to me as a misfit and under-dog. And during one of his newer songs, (which I hadn't heard yet) he dropped this great translucent veil over the stage and played a montage of film clips across the whole front of it. They were images of monkeys fucking and ripping flesh from bone, and millions of ants crawling over eachother blindly, and then a room full of couples from the 1960s dancing in unison. The lyrics went something like "when you look into the mirror, is that all you want to be? if you could see between the cracks would you find yourself, find yourself afraid to see?" And in the end of it, there was a picture of bush dancing with his wife and we flipped it off. And then at the end, poignantly enough, a wild monkey stormed this flock of delicate water foul and just grabbed one and held it in his hand. He looked dumbfounded, and, to me, seemed to stand for man's blind grasping of wonders and discoveries. He doesn't know what he has when he's finally figured out how to hold it, yet he knows that it is of value, and watches it flutter, half broken, in his primitive fingers. I'm sure the bird ended up dying, but he didn't let the film play that long.
I danced, uninhibited by self-consciousness, among a crowd of stiff white kids and older couples. A few of the guys started to move, and one grunge-ish couple near us was also into it. Will said that I looked like a stripper sometimes (I am sure the skirt and leather jacket and high heeled boots helped that fantasy along). Also, he said I was fun to go to concerts with. This is true only if I know many of the band's songs. But when it is someone I respect and have deep seeded sexual desires for, I can't really control what I do. I became similarly unhinged at a Perfect Circle concert, having swallowed a bunch of adderol and taking a hit of weed in the bathroom. It was amazing. I wasn't still the whole time. God, the room was empty except for the band and my heart beat. Even I was gone after a while, and it was just four silhouettes moving to their respective rhythms against so much dancing light.
|Thursday, September 22nd, 2005|
|Stephen is an Ass Hole
Stephen is still mad at me. He drove Heather to my house to pick up her things and I could see the nose of his car, could hear the engine rumbling from the street. I wanted to run outside and say something, but I was naked and wrapped in my blanket, still inwardly cringing from the night before. Fuck him, if he doesn't accept apologies. I don't give them very often, and he is being an infant.
Last night I ended up taking the bus to the bar and getting smashed. Two tequilla shots, two shots of Jack Daniels, two well drinks. I can't believe I drank so much in less than an hour and didn't puke. Then I came home and got extremely friendly with my long time online friend. It was coming anway, but alcohol helped. My sex life is turning new shades of pathetic lately. God Stephen is a dick.
So I'm hung over and cold, and didn't leave the house except to put myself in this state. Yesterday was a strange mixture of anxiety, boredom and acceptance. I watched television twice. So far, my quest for mental wholeness has not yielded positive results. I've written mediocre poems and fragmented, mediocre songs, and I have only managed to read one or part of one poem a day since my big epiphany. I need to pump some life back into this revival if it is ever going to change me. Ughhhhhhhhhhhh hang overs suck.
Actually, that last statement isn't true. I've read many poems on pathetic.org. I've also reevaluated my own poetry after gaining a different perspective on it. Perhaps I should read a novel now, or some non-fiction, or the news (also potentially non-fiction). The reading muscles in my brain need to be worked. Also, my abdominal and ass muscles need to be worked. Sex any one? I seem to be very lewd today. Ah well, I'll go with it.
|Wednesday, September 21st, 2005|
|The day after
Last night Heather came over and we drank and ate and spent most of the night in separate rooms. We have symbiosis, which can be a very valuable thing when you are addicted to the internet. I just took my pill after a two day hiatus. I don't know what is going on. This morning I woke up feeling delirious and out of control. I stuffed so much food in at once and then took a shower. It was like I forgot my barrings without some kind of a pill or a mission to change the world. What about my world? No one is watching it but me.
I started to watch tv again. Just a few old tv shows and some movies. I haven't read at all. Part of the discussion Austin and I had was unnerving. He wanted to explore my fascination with Frost, and concluded that it was more like an infatuation, an idolization, that would pass with the erratic mood swing that spurred it. I believe that is what is happening here. But I don't want to jump to conclusions. Instead, I will read today and attempt once more to write. The poem I wrote about the planets is losing depth every time I read it. It lacks sophistication. My writing has always seemed to lack a sophistication, but for what it is it has always been impressive. Impressive doesn't mean adequately expressive. To write from the heart while still fitting into scholarly lines, and ultimately breaking those lines...Ugh.
I played literati with John last night. He won, so I flashed him over webcam. This is the extent of my sex-life. Even he keeps asking me why I am not getting laid. I told him I am afraid because men are scum and women are crazy and I am the weirdest one of them all. I am not in a place for any decent person to love or respect. Is that self-deprecating to say? I should clean up from last night and keep writing. I like the feel of my fingers against the keys. Maybe I should just start writing a story or something. Anything. Keep the creativity flowing. Even if what I do isn't a masterpiece, it is like an experiment that will keep getting better.
Austin also told me to keep my head during times of chaos. He said that no matter how out of control things feel, you should always remember what is important. Usually, even during an intense mood swing, the sollution to every worry is to just continue on the path you have laid out for yourself. Keep reading and writing, keep up with school and self-maintenance. Keep exploring inside and divulging the truth from yourself. He said I was extremely self-aware, and that I probably will succeed in my attempts at bettering myself.
Stephen still hasn't picked up when I call. He is probably really mad at me. I feel bad for what I did. We need to talk, plain and simple. And I need to reevaluate my feelings and behaviors. I will not allow myself to become like my mother. Many things were passed on that I appreciate, but the violence is not something to be tolerated.
Dad e-mailed me. His words were accusatory, he really wanted to pass the blame onto me. He said that I had his information this whole time, it is my fault I didn't call him, it is my fault there is strangeness between us and it is my fault that I alienated him and his family. He said this in a series of declarative statements beginning with 'You'. Then he said he is expecting the information in the mail box soon. How commanding and macho of him. It is easy to see how to get back into his good graces. I should grovel and comply, wriggle up to him on my belly with wide, remorseful eyes. I don't know if I can do that. After all, he had my number and email address this whole time too. Where was he when the blame was being cast out? Stress is an illusive little beast. It hides in the most nonchallant places. An email, a refrigerator, a looking glass. I collect it like fool's gold. It is like holding electricity. But it is turning my hair white!
|Tuesday, September 20th, 2005|
|Cooling down...cool poetry
What a chaotic ride yetserday was. I am still ruing over it, trying to sap all the meaning from it before it is numbed back into memory. I wrote this really good poem, and even though it may be flawed in some ways, I enjoyed rereading it.
What is it to feel as deep as the seas
when it crushes the mind, what this wide heart sees
in a world that brightens like a firefly's end
and darkens as swift and oft' as it please
What is is it to whirl like a top at the whim
of a force unnamed, with intentions grim
to be sucked into orbit at the drop of a dime
as dead planets twirl, I too shall spin
My heart is the sun and my logic the moon
one burns like a devil's spite, swift and soon
and sheds such a light as to nurture my wounds
I seek solace skyward, on the face of a rune
pale and empty with a hollow glow
my moon is a phantom who feigns to know
as I dangle on strings of unconscious design
that send me to heaven, then back down bellow
what is it to taste of divinity's power
to rise like a tide in the blink of an hour
amassing such weight of conviction and strength
then wilting back inward with the fate of a flower?
I wrote this at the bus stop, after deflating fully from this euphoric high. It was like part of me died, but also part of me was able to breathe again, enough to make a concise and logical conclusion.
I fought with Stephen today. He was trying to be funny and I over reacted. I always hit him when I am angry, I can feel my mother come over me. I just let the anger whell until I can't stop it and then release it in jabs and punches against his shoulders. It is wrong, I know, but I feel justified because I am so much smaller than him, and I felt angry. I am working on it, let us just say that.
Plus, he feeds off of it. I tried to calm the situation down again, but he wanted me to keep hitting him, to stay mad and fiery. I just wanted him to leave for a while and to collect my thoughts. He slammed the door. I hope he comes back soon.
Cristina came over. She is this musician from the open mic where I work. I used to be so intimidated by her. She has an immense talent, and a charisma on stage. Seeing her in person made her more human. We connected well, and spoke about recording and insecurity and writing patterns. She told me about Victor Chavez, the president of Venesuella (spelling?). I didn't know how wonderful he was until she told me about it. All of his accomplishments as a leader seem surreal in this day and age. How could a world that would have Sharon and Bush in power also have room for Chavez? Speaking about it made me want to go out and do something, anything. but I stayed in and ate ice cream. We sang and played for a little bit and then she left. it felt very natural to entertain a guest in my house. Cleaning up before hand was not unpleasant, and I felt comfortable with myself while she was here. I didn't take my medication either, so maybe this is a sign that I don't need it so often? Maybe for school days or study days or something. I don't know. I am going to have to figure it out.
Last night went particularly well. I got drunk of course, and spent time at the bar. There was no open mic, instead there was a jazzy band with a saxaphone player. It was nice to unwind without having to perform. Still, it would have been nice. I saw Heather and Stephen and Jimmy and Larry (two of Stephen's gay friends). It was strange hanging outwith Heather last night. she seemed quieter, kind of unhappy maybe. I told her that I liked someone at the bar. His name was Damien (I know, how could you not want a guy with that name?) and he was tall with dark features and a nice jawline. No one else thought he was hot, but low and behold, Heather started talking with him, flashing him flirty smiles and sneaking outside to smoke with him. It was funny that she chose to talk to him right after I told her I really thought he was something. I worry that I am being paranoid because of what happened with Anna. She totally went after this guy because I liked him. I feel like finding good men is difficult, and you take ques from women you respect. If this means that every guy I like becomes fair game for every girl I know, then I'll just stay single for another year. Although it is getting rather hot in here lately if you know what I mean. Deprive yourself of chocolate for long enough and you will go on a rampage (or at least I will). Hopefully that won't result in me having indescreet promiscuous sex with people. At least let's hope I am dating the guy. There is nothing like horniness to help one over come immense self-consciousness. I just felt the need to throw that last little tid bit in there.
I am excited about my recordings. even though people havne't been listening to them as much as I would have liked, I still feel like they were a big accomplishment. Now I have a demo CD, something to sell at my gigs, and something to send to the family. I am not happy with "The Tide" though. My voclas and guitar weren't that good. I should also try to rerecord "Tether". There isn't any feeling in it. Alright, enough of this. I should read or something. But I feel like watching television and eating ice cream. I'l lgo for a walk instead. =)
|Monday, September 19th, 2005|
|still with the tension...Extremes revisited
it hurts now. things shift like bad waether in my head, and im leaning up against the same harsh wall pouring out tears. i want to stop thinking now. i let reality n in mouthfuls instead of teaspoons, and my mind was crippled in oblivion before. too frail to accept it all, too simple to calculate so many equations. it's dark now, and my inferiority complex is the largest block of shadow, the veil that encryptedeverything. so complicated yet so fucking simple. pitifully simple. like a wind up toy with a missing gear, it would be more trouble to fix than it's worth to me. my dreams are too grandiose. dreaming is such a fucked up masochism. and what is all of this if not the indications of a choice. my choice to avoid the high road, take the path of least resistance, settle back in to apathy and let my memory cleanse itself to begin this cycle over again. i always find myself in the dark, aching as if some lage organ was pulled from me without anesthetic. my head is heavy with the refuse of failed attempts, my brain is still whirring in my skull, trying to find a loop hole in thise whole conviction, honor, passion, intellect thing so that i might get my foot in the door. just like mom with so many manipulative back roads. she was just avoiding the truth, as i am now, that i am inferior in this life. not by design, but by my own crippled state of mind. i am inferior to everything because i fear this the most, and see this in every relationship i have. it was easier to assume the lesser role before, but now i feel this strange competetion with everyone.
Alright, I spoke to Austin and we discussed a few things. Firstly, I am not inferior, although I do have a ocmplex about it. Everyone does, in one way or another. It feels like Frost opened me up to the world of feeling and sensitivity, where as before I was closed up and indifferent in a lot of ways. The shift back to openness was violent, taking place within a few weeks at most. I imagine it to be much like the planets in the solar system, drifting around the sun that is the core of emotion and ability to take in and reflect feeling. Finding a happy distance from it without growing too cold or becoming fried is key. Right now I am pretty much dancing on the surface, and my head is crippled from thinking too deeply and feeling too much. Austin suggested that I rationalize things more, attatch logic to these epiphanies so that they aren't purely emotion. That way, once the feeling has dissipated, there will be something tangible to recollect. It will be a watermark in my personal growth, rather than an inexplicable jolt of electricity that leaves me confused.
This specific melt-down had a lot to do with feelings of insecurity. I feel inferior to Frost, and to a lot of people in my life who have things figured out. Mainly, I am feeling so much right now that I can't express it all, adn I can't keep a handle on my thoughts. I am straining to catch up with people like Frost, so that my world view might be as wide and enriched, and my life will yeild the same meaning. But instead of becoming at peace and centered, I have just thrown myself out of whack again. What I need to do now is take my mind away from these things. I need to get out of this house and into the world, and I need to unwind.
Part of my fear though is that this medication isn't helping. I am high strung and anxious and almost obsessively thinking about things. That isn't normal. Maybe I don't have ADD, or maybe I don't need so much medication. Maybe I don't need medication at all...
|Talking too much
I aksed Stephen to tell me whenever I seem to be 'showing off'. I want to be aware of it. He said that sometimes I talk a lot without letting others share their opinion. I guess I wantto convey what I feel, and I turn discussions into a selfish means of expression. Instead, they should be a pollenating of ideas. I know I've done this in ever discussion about poetry that I have had since my big revelation. This can be changed. Constructive criticism, it's all in how you take it.
|smoting digital ruin
Distracting myself from cleaning, plus it feels like I'm talking to a person with an infinite capacity to listen (and maybe understand?) without all the hassle of answering me back. Habitually disorganized.This habit will be difficult to break. The television is like a toxic portal that I can't look at or go near. Yesterday I had to turn it on to see if the cable was still there. I remember leaning in closer and closer, and it felt like I was touching something dirty when I pushed the button on. Sure enough, the darkness of the screen lit up with brilliant, obnoxious neon, as if some vile spirit had returned from whence it was flung. I shut it off immediately, rending my long-time foe impotent and lifeless once more. Forgive me for turning daily life into lord of the rings-esque sagas, school hasn't started yet and I am bored. Back to cleaning. =(