Saturday, September 23, 2006

In Remembrance.

Right now instead of doing what I'm supposed to be doing (resting, drinking lots of fluids, getting unsick), I'm watching a DVD of Sonic Youth videos. Did I ever tell you that Thurston Moore sat next to me once at a poetry reading in Long Beach? We were both wearing the same shoes.

[20 minutes later]...

It's getting late, and while I should be getting to bed, instead I am watching The Man Without A Face and have made some tea to help my immune system. My heart has been in a tangle lately. And in an effort to resolve the pain, I just start to remember past days, and what love was like for me then...

I always daydreamed of falling in love in fractured, improbable ways, like becoming infatuated with someone who wrote insightful comments in the margins of the library copy of a favorite book and then trying to track them down. A few years ago I was likely to get a crush on any college radio DJ who had a nice voice and played songs by Low and Bright Eyes. How did it take me so long to catch on? This is the sort of thing that seems romantic in fiction but makes people uncomfortable in real life.

I could stay single forever and be absolutely okay with it. But I still need love.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

But Tonight You're Sleeping Alone Without Him

I try not to think about it and that makes my heart kind of heavy, so then I do think about it but my heart doesn't seem to feel any lighter. At this point I can't pinpoint what upsets me or how to even begin to fix it. All I know is that sometimes it's kind of hard to believe that you actually exist.

I guess the trouble is that even when I'm sure of something I somehow still have a hard time saying it like I really mean it.

When other people get stressed or frustrated or blue they eat or drink or sleep or go shopping. Lately I've been feeling one or all of these things so during my lunch hour today I hid on the second floor of the bookstore and looked at art books. Have you seen any of Francesca Woodman's work? Lately I've been spending a lot of time staring at her photos and thinking about what it means to be hidden and exposed all at once.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

I Was A Teenage Fortune Cookie

Haven't quite finished 2001: A Space Odyssey or Bluebeard, but rereading The Bell Jar for the first time since jr. high. It conjures up uncomfortable memories of uncomfortable things like gym class, bloodied underpants, and Saved by the Bell. I tried to reread it freshman year of college but failed. I remember being a bit too scared to read it, but now I'm not sure if I was scared of Esther Greenwood's past or my own.


It's funny, somehow or other, to think of what does and doesn't scare you when you're 13. I remember sitting in the cafeteria asking friends how they'd do it, if they had to kill themselves. I remember thinking this was a perfectly reasonable and appropriate question to pose over a lunch of greasy pizzas and pretzels dunked in processed nacho cheese, it didn't seem the least bit upsetting or unpleasant, it was just simply a question, much like asking, if you could be any animal, what animal would you be? There were much more practical things to be frightened of, like the boy in art class who liked to incessantly remind me that he did not think I was the least bit pretty. (This always seemed silly to me for a variety of reasons, one of which was that the boy was over 250lbs and not terribly pretty himself, but then, you don't try to explain the concept of irony to someone whose entire wardrobe consists of Megadeth t-shirts.)


I'm getting sidetracked.


But my point is, that it wasn't the pills or nooses or the breakdowns that worried me. There were other pieces of the book that were far more sinister and mysterious. I began to panic about whether or not boys' exposed crotches really did look like turkey gizzards, and if girls truly did make a bloody mess afterwards. There wasn't anyone to ask, of course, and these questions seemed as fascinating and impossible as trying to figure out what made a Ouija board move.


It's almost disappointing, somehow, that the book doesn't scare me a bit this time. There's something really jarring in realizing that being madly in love is utterly dependent on the time and the place.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Something More, Something Less

All day, sidetracked with the idea of shutting up like a telescope and I couldn't figure out why. It was only awhile later that I realized that it had come from Alice in Wonderland. I'd probably save myself an awful lot of trouble if I just assumed that all random thoughts that seem vaguely familiar can be traced back to Alice.

Last night I had a curious dream about a boy whom I don't talk with very much at all anymore. In the dream we ran into each other at an art museum and he told me about a class he was taking on cemeteries. A cemetery class! I exclaimed, and then sighed forlornly, wondering how I ever let him get away.

Not that that's exactly how it went, of course, but that's beside the point. What is more to the point is the strange way that something entirely fictional can dredge up entirely nonfictional feelings and emotions. Not that it's anything serious; I suppose it just makes me wonder if such feelings are ever finished, final, or if perhaps they simply hibernate, waiting patiently to be triggered, coaxed out of their hiding places.

Saturday, September 9, 2006

(no subject)

Lately listening to that American Analog Set guy/Death Cab for Cutie guy split EP. Listening to it on headphones, and it's the kind of music that was meant to be listened to this way, the whispered words fading into your ears feel like the slightest, most perfect touch, like a hand grazing your arm or a kiss on the neck.

Thinking that this is the most physical contact there's going to be for awhile, which should seem like a bit of a relief, but it isn't.

Last night I had so many dreams. Not the standard run of the mill nightmares about ax murderers or rotten teeth and lousy haircuts, but ones about shopping for hoodies and late night drives that go nowhere and the apartment in Berkeley; things so simple and prosaic that they felt more like real life than anything does while I'm awake.