I suppose we are, very much, alike, seeing as how today, her ex called her cell, and when I picked up, he said, "Hey Sophie, are you with Katie?" I told him no, and was soon consumed with a fit of the giggles, as she happened to be on my cell with one of my friends, and we had to switch phones in the middle of traffic to clear up the mess (which we didn't do a very good job of, just because we were so amused by ourselves).
Smiling may cause wrinkles around the eyes, but if I live to be wrinkled, I would rather have smile lines around my eyes than frown lines around my mouth.
I find it rather disheartening that I am drawn mainly to those who are in love with beauty in all forms, only because I will never be as beautiful as they want. They can appreciate musical, human, sexual, cinematic beauty, and all I will ever be to them is just another person who is only flesh and blood, and may or may not be beautiful. I would kill for a beautiful mind... a beautiful mind is the only thing that no one else can steal from you. Your beautiful mind will always be held dear, while your sagging flesh takes second to a young and lithe physical specimen. The desires to be remembered a certain way will be shattered and forsaken once physical beauty starts to fade, but the power of a beautiful mind will always have draw and favour. As much as I would die to be number one for someone, I realise that is frivolous and not possible. It is dreadfully hard to be someone's favourite, but as long as your mind proves beautiful to someone, you may not be first choice, but you will never be alone, either.
Immortality is impossible as memory fades-- the songs of the ancients held dear have not been Velcro enough to sustain through time and space-- and just as well. It is an important lesson: it may be wonderful to be remembered and looked fondly upon in the minds of strangers, but it is of far more importance to be remembered fondly by those whom you yourself often fondly remember. The thought that you may never be able to effectively to touch someone, to leave an impression, is awful. Not to say being "nobody" is awful-- most of us live our lives being "nobody" to the world and an absolute treasure to very few-- but just imagine. A baby born, an innocent child life that never had an opportunity to be anything to anyone because their sire was either too out-there, oblivious, or selfish to care? Where do the lonely souls go? What happens to the spirits who were never allowed or able to know love?
I recently overheard a debate about animal cruelty-- one argument was that no animal deserves testing without their consent, and the other stand-point was that animals were not advanced enough to know or to give consent. I began to think of lab-rats: how are we as humans to know, or to comprehend a rat? They have much smaller brains than we do, due to body size, but how do we really know? What is it like when a rat is in agony? It made me very depressed. I was questioned... physical agony? No. What if rats have their own language, their own tiny thoughts, their own sense of being that allows them agony of mind?
Gorillas that lose a baby are often depressed. They say that monkeys are the animals that are most like humans, and not so far back, there was a gorilla who lost a baby, and became "depressed". Would not eat, would sulk, and would ignore her other little ones, supposedly, because of the loss of one in her arms that she gave birth to. They did an experiment where they gave her a kitten, and she was gentle with it, loved that kitten until the day it died because gorillas can outlive cats. Treated it as her own. Maternal instinct. How else would feral children be possible?
Mating calls, songs, howls, yowls, cries of lust, screams of sadness in the night: we are all the same. Animals and humans know pain-- whether mental or physical, on some level it is always there and will always and forever be there. It is the same. Comparing the pain and loss and neuroses of animals is the same as writing off a rich girl for being upset when there are starving children to feed. There will always be a breaking point, something that strikes a chord, something that forces you to feel. You as in I and as in everyone else. There is always something. A longing.
In longing: what do you long for?
I long to know my biological parents. I long to truly believe I am worth it. I long for a purpose in this seemingly useless and climber-based existence. I long for my soul to be evaluated by someone who has known me long enough to do so. I long for honesty, as much as it may hurt, instead of being placated. I long for the day that my adoptive mother will listen to me without interrupting, and honestly honestly try to comprehend, which she has not yet done, because she believes only in the quick-fix. I long for people to just live rather than being slaves to diets or scenes or reputations. I long for the day someone will fill me so completely that I don't want to drink or smoke [not to say people have not already made me feel like life is worth living without vice... but a lot of the time it has been because they have been my partner in crime in said vice, and instead of instilling in me the desire to eliminate it, they have participated with me]. I long to make someone feel like they are worth something the way that I wish someone would make me feel the same about myself. I long for the day when people don't have to leave. I long for the day when memory is no longer the only sanctuary. I long for the day when I can understand faith, and possibly let it save me. I long for the day I will be taken seriously and not viewed as a young, stubborn, stupid girl. I long for the day that there will be nothing to cry about except frivolous happy things that only conjure tears of joy. I long for the day when Jessica B. can stop crying. I long for the day when I can stop longing.
There is so much beauty everywhere and I am so scared that no one sees any of it. A bad movie with a touching score, a perfect yellow-orange leaf falling from a tree and tickling you on your face, a homeless man saying what sounds crazy but making perfect sense, a person who you see as so different, but is so much like you. They speak the gospel in the simple truths they propose-- it is all you and has always been you. I long for the day that the denial stops.
I am so very jealous. I can blame it on many things but now is not the time for blame. I do not want to be jealous, I want to be accommodating. I want to accept everything for what it is-- but I am only human. Suspicion and jealousy are common faults. Whether true or substitute is not important-- the important thing is the fulfillment from something that is just good enough.
In Grease, one of the characters told Sandy not to worry about Danny's horrid behaviour because the only guy a girl could ever trust was her father. Not so. Either way, a romantic and wonderfully poignant notion. All birds fly from the nest, however, and it does not matter how big a role Papa Bird has in your life, you are an individual and will do what you like when you are no longer under his wing. Mother birds, too. Eventually, we all leave the nest and soar to places we are not prepared for.
My mama bird started to cry when she read my itinerary. I could not discern whether it was because she was jealous or because she would miss me in an 8-day absence. Maybe I was finally growing up-- and maybe she hates that. As much as she hates it, I hate it more because I always just want to be a little girl, innocent. I want to be free of vice, perhaps a pistol (but still "cute" and acceptable in youth). As much as I fight with them, they are the only family I have ever known, and I fear beyond most things the day when they disappear on me.
Leif said, and this I think is one of the true reasons we live among sages:
It's sad for the children to have to bury their parents. It's sad, but natural. When parents must bury their children, it's tragic.
Selfish of me to want to go first...
He is wise. I am thankful for such influences, but if I do go first, I hope he will not hate me.
Speaking of which-- in the next week or two I may die in a flood, so if no one hears from me by August 12th, you can assume that is what happened.
Paying homage is a strange thing. If you can't spell something, should you also not be allowed to do it? In the days where fathers wore their hair combed neatly to the side, and mothers wore aprons and ironed carpets in such a meticulous way that their slips never showed, there was always "the talk". The birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees. It was commonly mentioned that pleasuring oneself was bad and wrong, would cause blindness, hairy hands, killed kittens, and could cause stupidity.
In that same vein, why is it that so many people in this world insist on spelling it "M-A-S-T-E-R-B-A-T-E"?? That irks me so much that I think until they can learn to spell it correctly, they shouldn't be allowed to do it. Honestly, that's a word most of us learn at relatively early ages due to books about puberty, perverted classmates, older siblings, what have you. That noted, why is it so hard for so many to spell? Also, if the difficulty in spelling is so great, why do more people not refer to it as something more easily spelled, like, "jack off"?
Sasha and myself embarked on an impromptu roadtrip to Marin today because Damon needed a ride out there to pick up his new motorcycle. It was sold to him by a British man called Martin who we hoped would be Martin Gore but turned out to only be "an old man".
Went to Vallejo where Sasha was finally able to meet my parents, ate ice cream, picked up some disposable cameras and watched reality television with my mom. I now know why my mom is so obsessed with that stuff: there is always a particularly nefarious being on each and every one of those trashy programs that warrants distaste and is therefore entertaining, because some of the behaviour is unbelievable.
Perhaps girls really are like flowers. That's terrifying.
Sydney's over tonight, and while Sasha and I were downstairs talking to her, she said, "Go to livejournal". Sydney does not have a livejournal and this makes me sad because she's a funny creature and the way she looks at things is very atypical of a lot of people I have met in my life. Anyway, she was taking a look at my friends page, and she said, "So this is where people come and write their thoughts, right?"
"Yeah," I said.
"If I got on here, I think I would write some crazy stuff when I was drunk." I could only smile at the memories I have had on here and in that state.
The dog has fleas again and one of them decided to feast upon my ankle-meats (which are sparse, why not the thighs?) and now I have a lovely bump to match the unexplained lump in my face.
The lump in my face concerns me... they say cancer is not supposed to hurt, but aren't there situations where it could technically hurt depending upon its residence in your tissues? I figure, it's either cancer (of the face?), some sort of horrendous calcium deposit (as most brilliantly illustrated in the [very impressive] book of Mutter Museum photographs) where a woman with an excess calcium deposit has begun to grow a horn, or an obscenely misled tooth that is trying in vain to come out the side of my face. I don't need cancer or a horn coming out of my chin, plz.
To me, "chin" means "entirety of visible jawline". It's because I am classy. My roommates have a GameCube and I am strangely obsessed with one of the fighting games that they play. I love to play fighting games even though I suck at them-- perhaps only because I am fascinated by what my manic pressing of buttons and the flailing of my character sometimes proves successful. Jeezy, a frequent house-guest, was kind enough to oblige me and let me play with him. I kicked his ass. He was surprised, but I think I was more surprised. He is funny, too. He is a sweet and quiet boy, and he takes care of his little brother. It's really cute. His mom sometimes comes over and hangs out with all of us, drinking Coronas with limes in the top, which I think is very classy. She is sweet, too. One day, a long time ago she came round looking for Jeezy when no one was home, and I invited her in to stay in case they came back soon. We had a heart-to-heart in the kitchen and she is wonderful.
Jeezy sometimes talks about how he gets nightmares because of the way "the crew" has taken to saying his name, and I know that when I grow old and senile that will be one of the details that will make me cry for my youth.
Most of the time when I come home, there is a plethora of people sitting on the couches in the living room, and they all greet me when I come in. It is a chorus of "Hi, Katie" and it fills me with a strange sense of joy and hope. It's like coming home to a coffee shop, one I am familiar with and I have finally learned everyone's name. It's like Suzanne Vega's song "Tom's Diner". It's intimate, and while certain things irritate me, they are as much my fault as everyone else's. It's bizarre, but as much as I wasn't comfortable with my situation before, I am all right with it now. I live with boys-- a mess is to be expected. They are kind to me, have stopped stealing my sodas and food, and have shown a vast improvement in getting rent in on time. Their guests are charming, and as much as I despise weed, I don't care that they smoke it in the house because they respect me enough to keep it away from me. Maybe that's all that things take-- just time. I like my roommates. Brian is funny, Tom is diligent and likes to keep the house quiet because he has just as much riding on staying here as I do, and Damon is a trouble-making Taurus from Texas, like me. Plus, I adore his girlfriend. We have fun in the rare times that we're together and they are always sweet and inquisitive whenever I am gone for a long period of time. Now to find a job and settle debts, to actually feel like I am worth something, and things might be just shy of perfect. No, I don't have my dream car and I still don't get along very well with my family, but my roommates are now my family and I thank them for that. They include me, knock on my door to invite me out of hermitude, to play video games, watch television, go to raves. They want to hook me up with cable modem but I am afraid.
I have been budgeting my free time poorly, which sort of scares me. Sometimes I have so many thoughts in my head, that if you catch me at the right time and on the right tangent I will pour my entirely slimy soul out to you which is usually a very ugly thing. I want to budget my free time in productive ways, but all I want to do anymore is sleep and I am perpetually tired. It is funny how sometimes the lines in a somewhat meaningless pop-song can resonate so deeply, it is hilarious how unhinged I have become and how my thoughts are just crisscrossing train-tracks awaiting a jump of the rails or a massive collision.
On Monday, gunsafety showed this to Sasha and I. She tried to whisper to him about how I hate politics while he crouched in the squallor that is my room, but we loaded it and watched it anyway, and I was amused. Not particularly because I am interested in Bush or Kerry, but simply because they made still pictures "talk" and "sing" with simple animation and I am easily entertained. If you are at all into either of the aforementioned "parties" (shouldn't that word be reserved for more glam things, such as loud and drunken social gatherings at a house, rather than just a group of people that represent things? Anyway...) you should take a look. At the very least, it will kill time, that thing that many of us are so very fond of killing.
I honestly believe that every day, each of us walks among fools and sages, as suggests Aerosmith, from whom we should learn. So many people say so many things that seem of such little importance, and really, all it takes is a second-look from a stranger to make it special. An eerie relation, a cosmic realisation caused by an offhand comment-- that is variety, surprise, the spice of life, that which makes so many days worth living. I sound like a sappy idiot, but honestly, in these dark days in which so many things plague and trouble the general populous, why do we not treat each nice experience as a quarter-- it buys us time on an intangible meter that determines whether or not we will hit rock bottom in relation to how many metaphorical "quarters" we collect. That said, FEED ME. Gag my meter with your filthy quarters, and someday I will find a way to re-pay you. This is my vow.
I almost typed "this is my cow". This place I call home is so full with energy that I become uneasy when I do not hear the familiar murmur of voices that seems so constant from downstairs. When I can hear them, I sleep more easily and am not so tortured by irrational fears, night terrors and dreams from which I awake on my back with my mouth open, wondering how in hell I did not choke on something in my sleep. I desperately long to give and to share whenever I can, and though I may have spent money I did not have... it was worth it. I may owe my parents and my friends and the plastics more than I will ever be able to see through, but I vow to try. In this way I am envious of people like nuns-- they give all they can, solemn in their vow of poverty to reach out and give of themselves to those who need a channel of communication, and because of their vow of poverty, all they give is genuinely of themselves. I wish I could do the same, and even though I am not remotely religious-- I was offended by the movie that depicted Shirley MacLaine as a beautiful, make-up-wearing, cigar-smoking, and double-entendre-offering nun. Perhaps it is strange and sinful to envy a nun, and more bizarre to be offended by an image that is simply not parallel to the image I was presented with for "nun"... alas. This is why each person is a jewel-- because of the small differences in perception and the daily reminder that maybe "reality" is the only word in the English language that should be used in quotes.