Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Nature vs Werther's Original

It's been so long since I've really written anything of worth. It seems I've been saving my words for something more important than internet blogging - but really, these days, this is publishing.

Every decision I've been faced with as of late can be simplified into comfort vs. risk. I seem to be on the threshold of so many new things, if I was to make the conscious effort to do said things.

What will I wager, will I go there? Will my family still love me afterward? Will it fit with what is me, whoever that is?

I'd like to venture out to an old cottage on Lake Erie to just think and write my way out of these little conundrums. To have some real solitude, to let words form out of silence in the back of my mouth to tell me what it is I need to do. Instead of my nerves doing the talking.

This is not out of the realm of possiblity. Perhaps I should see how I can make this happen.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

milked

The buoyancy of my heart is suicide and I’m just sinking. Sinking, with neither ability nor interest to come up for air. Perhaps some ability, but lacking necessary will.

And this has nothing to do with anyone, outside myself. At least not this morning.

I leave the pages blank for so long because once they start filling up with words I’m always disappointed… or conflicted.

A woman walked into the hotel's lobby with a peeled orange, a third of it messily bitten off, its torn wet dark flesh shining in the florescent lights and I so desperately wanted a bite. When she left I could smell the spray of juice that must have misted in with the air around and I breathed it in, inhaling the loose particles of orange.

Partially in a state of a real thick awareness of my current surroundings and a state of feared nostalgia; this shift was hard to run through. Coffee. Licorice. Trying to avoid certain conversations (though I found myself constantly pondering how these conversations would flow out). Ghosts scare me just as much as they fascinate me. But they stop me dead in my tracks when they attack my sleeping state.

Sometimes, I just want to sleep.

Sometimes, I don't want to wake up at all.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

something marginally poetic

A long time ago (quite some years, now) a professor asked me into his office and told me to, "write what you want, and love as if your heart will never stop."

This evening, an ex sent me a message regarding this particular conversation. The message read, "...don't fear love," and went on to say that that professor is dead now: cardiac arrest. No joke.

Wait, here's the punchline: So it goes.

Monday, June 14, 2010

i have real problems that i don't talk about and probably should

I thought for a minute about telling him that I don't love him, even though I do.
____
It's purely psychological, this tension between my shoulders. I can't turn my head because of what's going on inside.
____
I want to ask for a backrub, but it seems inappropriate. I say I don't know why I am so tense, and he lists off reasons. My real problem is that I'm always thinking of everything I'm not doing that still needs to be done.
____
I get less tense when my apartment is clean, so I clean my apartment.
____
I get very tense when my finances are out of order, which they are right now, but that's just a matter of trasferring money. It used to be so much worse. Still, I fret because I know how bad it was.
____
I don't have any real problems. People are dying, but no one is dead. Relationships are ending, but they're not over yet. Money is being made. Bills are being paid. Friendships fall by the wayside, as they do, as they do.
____
I get less tense when I write, so I write.
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I get very tense when I talk, so I don't say anything at all.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

what's mine is mine

Taste is the most selfish of all the senses. When I see something, I don't diminish the object by viewing it. When I smell something, I don't take the aroma away with me. When I touch something, I usually leave a bit of myself behind. My hearing something doesn't trap the sound waves or in any way inhibit your ability to hear it.

But taste: you can't taste what I taste. It's gone, forever adulterated by enzymes and teeth, and even if you could, somehow, eat the very same John Wayne Omelette, just as we could see the very same sunset, smell the very same jasmine, caress the very same skin, listen to the exact same Sonics album, you might not like it as well as I did.

And even if we do share the same experiences, there's no accounting as to how we actually experience them. Just because we both recognize red doesn't mean my red is your red.

It's a lonely life sometimes, but it is my lonely life.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

"it takes a lot of woman, yeah, to satisfy my soul"

We were discussing the grandfather clock when I asked what time it was.

This struck Bartender as odd, as we were standing in front of a functioning clock, keeping time perfectly purely by weight.

I saw the arrows. I saw them point. I saw them move. They meant nothing to me.

"It's not time," I tried to explain. "It's a symbol of time."

I can't decide if my brain experiences life too literally or too symbolically to interpret the meaning instantly.

Don't ask me how I've been able to bullshit a thesis on the displaced patriotism within Vonnegut's nihilist motif but can't read an analog clock.

Friday, May 21, 2010

You Are What You Breathe

Yesterday I woke up around one in the afternoon, lay in bed for an hour and a half somewhere between dreamstate and deliberate force, fuzzily conscious and blotting out all the edges slowly darkening into focus with the sandpaper wall of my wooden brain. Watching with the pores lining the inside of my respiratory system as the grey landscape of the bedsheets merged with the unpatterned white sky of the adjacent walls and I seemed to be sleeping in a cloud, though not asleep, just daydreaming myself asleep. My lips parted and my lungs filled with fog, replacing awareness with vagueness, perhaps escapism, the vapor satiating my interior skin, hydrating the desert of imagined reality that is, sadly enough, all I’ve been feeling lately. Reality. Loneliness. Loss. Fear. Fear has been cycling around my heart like a long-necked bird, ready to peck me apart. I'm lost. I'm looking around for something, but I'm not sure what.

Novelty? Honesty?

Monday, April 12, 2010

Bulbous

In the wake of rain storms, the grass is the vibrant green of childhood drawings rendered in Crayola crayon, the trees sport tiny fragile buds that seem to grow more bold each time I blink, and the flowers gain new bedfellows each day. It all feels so painfully optimistic. Spring is developing around me as in a polaroid photo where a blank darkness magically becomes vividly colorful.

This weather is making me rather less melancholy than you might imagine ( admittedly, few things do). I take long walks at dusk and feel a restlessness, a sense of this new expansiveness, and think perhaps a lowly flower bulb and I have a lot in common in the Springtime. Does a flower bulb feel buried-alive during winter? Does it feel a sense of claustrophobia upon awakening in April? Anthropomorphizing plants is a bit of a seasonal syndrome for me - I project my own issues onto them all year long. For example: in Autumn, I feel the trees are sad, nay, in mourning as their leaves all wither and blow away. In Winter, I perceive the trees as being depressed and sometimes spiritually dead... woe!

Speaking of plants:
This morning, if a person happened to be outside of my door and perchance glanced up at my second floor neighbors, they would have seen a strange bald man leaning out of his window with a huge Guatemalan machete hacking at a tree. I got a lovely kick out of the spectacle (my upstairs neighbor wielded the machete with glee). Lest one think this is a typical case of a city-dweller venting primitive rage on innocent plant-life, let me state that the tree had grown too bold! With branches scratching at the walls all night and morning and pounding in demanding-fashion every time the wind got fierce, it needed to be taught a lesson. I have such trouble falling asleep and despite its best efforts, morning brew couldn't even do anything about that tree problem (in the scheme of things, it was just a minor tree-haircut, anyway).

I'd never seen a machete in action (in my mind they were confined to movies set in rainforests - usually ending in some trauma) but it turns out machetes are practical as well as stylish - that blade cut through the wood like butter. Some day, if I live in suburbia, I will take much pride in collapsing my neighbors' relaxed sanity by pruning all of my shrubbery with a machete.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Enough Is Enough

An enormous, languorous writer's block has perched itself upon me; I soar on the edges of ecstasy, whimsically jogging through my neighborhood (in jeans, no less!) and buying Dickie thirty (not that many) kinds of vegan treats, and it was just yesterday that I was that girl who'd discovered Schopenhauer is her guardian angel - I drink bottles of wine, I drive my own core tranquility away with my centrifugal capriciousness.
It's another deliciously deciduous day here in Golden Hill country. I know I've been uninspired and bland lately, like a soggy cracker, like flat soda. I walk to and fro, fritter here and there, and my brain slides backwards.

I can feel my ribs wrapping around me, holding me in...

... heart stuttering.


I. Don't. Know. How. To. Feel. Or. Think.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Or...

I'm finding regular writing rather less easy than I remember it being. Perhaps you've noticed. Most likely, I suppose, it's because I'm not currently living a terribly interesting life and have been idling for weeks through the most drawn-out case of a head cold I can imagine ever having afflicted anybody whose immune system wasn't compromised by anything I'd very much hope I haven't got. I lack the energy for adventuring, in short, and have been trying not to write just for the sake of remarking on how encouraging it is to see the likes of Afghanistan taking the cricket half way seriously and giving the Irish a good kicking. Not that I've anything against the Irish playing cricket, either.

I am tempted to complain about the lack of cricket on free television, mind. Well, internationals, anyway... I seem to have lost all faith and interest in the domestic game. In fact let's count that a complaint in full, and move on.

Bearing in mind the lack of genuinely interesting things going on in my world at the moment, and the fact that while this morning's televisual broadcasting features nothing I really want, it does offer lots and lots of Star Trek franchises, please forgive me a moment of foolishness as I admit that I may have recently made the mistake of using this wonderful internet we're both, you and I, not enjoying right now to ask a stupid question in relation to one such franchise. "So, these Ocampa" I started -and I may have spelled it with a K, initially, but was soon put right, of course-, "am I right to take from this episode that they have two genders, male and female, only the latter of which carries young; that they have only one child-bearing cycle in their lifespan; and that a single birth gives them no cause for alarm?". On being told that, yes, this does seem to be the case, I wasted a little more of my life by adding, "So they haven't died-off because?..."

And that, son, is why I can never go back to Starfleet.

Granted, given that I've certainly not seen anywhere near all the available episodes, I may have missed something that would shed light on the matter, but heck, I asked the internet, and if nobody there knows about these things... Doesn't Star Trek hire nerds to spot and correct these gaping holes in their logic? What are Trekkies for? The most interesting response I got, and truthfully a large part of my motivation in recounting this non-event, read, "Yeah, they'd of died off... Leave it to Star Trek to get physics right, but horrible bungle sex."

Which just made me wonder... well, I don't see the relevance, but is there any other kind with Bungle?

Still, I've heard more troubling things. On the latest flare-up of the alcohol debate and specifically what a mess Scotland's alleged to be, one mad Scottish bint was heard to declare that, "A Scottish woman is now more likely to die from alcohol-related causes than an English man, and that's just not acceptable." Well, unless she was just informing us that lone Englishmen don't kill as many Scottish women as booze does -which, I would think, is not necessarily a bad thing in any case-, Englishman certainly shouldn't be letting women anywhere near their pints.

Wednesday is the day for sitting about and picking holes in sci-fi and the legitimate concerns of responsible citizens, isn't it? Or am I just thinking of blogs in general?