|Wednesday, September 15th, 2004|
6:07a - By My Side, In Your Eyes, Across The Street
It looks like I've got a roommate all lined up. He's cool, went to high school with him, and he has an adorable sister. They call him 'Flex' and in all of my most psychotic dreams, I never thought I would live with him. I never thought I would live with Mike's younger brother, either. Such is life.
Today I went to the post office and finally checked my PO Box for real and I got three completely wonderful parcels. One from Lizzy, one from Rae, and one from Ian. Lizzy, I love the photo and have already hung it up in my bathroom. That's where I get ready every day so it will remind me to be glam.
Quotes of the week:
Sydney was wearing a blue floral corset, and Damon told her to turn around and let me see the back. Her response?
"No! She's not a lesbo!!!" -- Sydney
"I don't like Sim Ronan because he sounds like Ian with a synthesizer, and frankly, that's disturbing." -- Bill
"Way to listen to Bright Eyes, dinosaur." -- Rae
Did I ever tell you how much I love Lindsay the movie star?!
I find it interesting and morbid that the last song Hank Williams, Sr. ever did before he shuffled off this mortal coil was called, 'I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive". Slightly more disturbing is that despite his twang and obvious country classification, I still listen to him constantly and really enjoy myself.
Society views living with ones parents as shameful after a certain age. However, if you hold your own, work a job, and use the place as only a safe harbour for sleep, what is so wrong with it? At present it seems like I might have to go back and live with them sometime in the near future in order to claw my way out of debt and into a brighter tomorrow, even if that means that the present will become an abyss.
I feel like I have nothing but I have a lot of weight on my shoulders. You say I am popular, but I feel like another of the soldiers, nothing special or willing all we were meant to do was war and killing and yet. There is something else holding back, peeled back. Should I stay or should I go has never before had more practical application, so many pros and cons, rights and wrongs, silence and songs. It's been said that I have everything out here that I have ever known... which is true. However, so much of that has been destroyed because of petty circumstance and I don't know whether to embrace the new or brave the old in hopes that the important people will follow. Which is the 'right' decision?
The sweetest dreams I've ever known
Are those of you and those of home
...but where is home?
My dad used to go out of his way to find me my favourite books from childhood even though they were out of print, as well as my favourite movies. To this day, he cannot find Moonwalker or Repossessed.
I must have this:
Too bad it's a hundred bucks and I can't even afford to eat. When did I ever become such a girl? This is not allowed. When things are reconsidered, they hit with far more force than originally intended. Perhaps I am bizarre, but I notice I am living out a strange paradox-- I think I am better than a lot of people, and yet I feel I am nothing. What does that make them? What does that make me? A damaged narcissist? How am I so able to feel that I am above so many and yet feel so down about myself? I am so hungry.
I've been much too influenced by movies. In this sense, ten year olds can fall in love and crotchety old bastards can win my heart. People who meant something once can mean something always. I'm still hungry and in this instance my eyes were snapped open suspicious glare by a sudden impact. It's easy to forget where the lines are blurred. Nothing quite does it for me like that.
I wonder where all the red is going as the hours drag on and on and I see no trace of shadow. They'll fail you now that you're complicit-- say you're wrong and that's exactly what they want you to think. Part of me wants to teach you about Sam Adams because I know what he looks like. They put his picture on the label-- there's no time for that now. I'm forbidden to pay my dues in the only way I know how.
Overtaken by the waterfall of tonight in the spaces of gloom where it seems beauty can find no light. I remember not being able to hear this behind the wheel because it made me speed and while that it still a potential risk, there is no time in which the risk has been more worth it. Six hours to Humboldt and 8 to L.A. I can't afford not to afford this risk today. My car may be wrecked and in need of repair but today is the day I don't care I don't care.
My hair's still wet, my lips still numb with regret. I still smell like bleach. I wonder what that can mean, since I rinsed so thoroughly. Perhaps the past can never be washed away, and I still feel the need to be punished. For sins long past and for things I can't control. When I was a small child, I could not control the people who took advantage of me, and I could not speak of them because I was completely convinced that I brought it on myself. Eventually, the truth was brought to light and all I could do was stare at the floor. I never was blamed, naturally, and I never understood why. Each misfortune in this life is a punishment for something in the last, and thus, every time I fuck up in this life I feel the need to punish myself. Is that so terrible? Which is worse, the egomaniac who believes nothing is their fault, or the masochist who takes responsibility for things they cannot control and offers a sacrifice to make up for it? Which sin and which sacrifice is not the point... the real end is that if one feels bad about something, they should try to make up for it.
I will make up for this.
Do you believe in curses? I do.
Where is my muse? Things might have become so stifled that I cannot even fathom how to take the pillow off of your suffocating face. Why wouldn't you say it? Why wouldn't you speak all that I spelled out? Are toys of that nature a casualty of the nineties like the Sharpie on my window, like the quotes I am not allowed to credit? Can I ever be what they want? That is the only guideline presented because the only thing that I know I want is to face things in my own special way again. I don't want to be afraid of the blowdryer anymore and I don't want to hate their cookies. I don't want to laugh at you hating their cookies and I don't want to be jealous of the dead girl who overdosed and as such gets to act out the role of town princess. She was not perfect but an accident covers all flaws, doesn't it? Seeming saintly in untimely passing. Well, fuck you, town princess. You and I and everyone will never have a halo of memory that is accurate and I do not mean to upset your peace but with the way you went, so irresponsible, do you deserve any of it? Does anyone?
Who ever heard of a dead princess? Who plays catch with a rock?
My roommate and I were watching a current version of what was supposed to be the talent competition held at the Apollo. Some girl was on there singing 'A Woman's Worth' in the style of Alicia Keys. When it came to the climax, he sang along, and it made me laugh. He had the words and the tone dead-on. I looked at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
"You surprised that I know that?" he asked.
"My fiancee... uh, ex-girlfriend used to play that song all the time. She'd always be like, 'I know exactly how she feels!' like I was supposed to feel guilty or something."
Strangely enough, the rest of the show was watched in silence, as though he had hit his own nerve and revealed something far too personal. I wouldn't judge. He's my roommate and I don't really know him. The roommate that I barely know. It's like my 'family'. My dad came knocking on my door when I still lived with them. I unlatched the deadbolt, and peeked out.
"Your mom made some spaghetti," he said. "But I won't touch it. It's disgusting." Then, he walked away.
Puzzled, I walked into the living room. "Mom?"
"Dad is saying weird things to me..."
"He said your spaghetti is disgusting and that he wouldn't touch it."
She laughed. "Your dad hates pasta, that's why he said that."
In all of that time, I never knew my dad didn't like pasta. These days, I have a friend who quotes the Neverending Story at me, and that makes me feel strangely magical. While people have the ability to be horrible nasty beasts, some of them are so sweet and fascinating as to warrant adoration, and I think that is what life is all about.
My mom knew what Invader Zim was because a few years ago I had a slight obsession with it, but she had never seen it until quite recently. She had never let me show it to her, although she always wanted to show me things that she liked. Anyway, she watched it and while somewhat confused, she had some good laughs and recognised Gaz as the girl I had been some Halloweens ago. After it was over, despite her laughter and obvious enjoyment and intrigue, she said, "Can I go now?"
It crushed me and I realised why I was so picky. I'm more like my parents than I thought. Following my mothers subtle examples, I learned to be a finicky bitch that gave nothing a chance. I hate that of all things, that was the trait that I picked up from her that was the most prominent. I always got on her case for being close-minded, and all the while, I was the same way, under her influence, and I cannot believe it took an episode of sodding Invader Zim to teach me that about my personality. Better that than therapy, I suppose. It makes one wonder however-- what lessons do we all learn from juvenile and or inconsequential events that we do not realise until later? Interesting, I think.
I am sort of afraid to pursue my dream of being a writer just because I am not a lit major and also because I am afraid that by the time I get anything out there, the internet will have advanced so far that books will have become antiquated and archaic. What will happen in ten years? Will people with dial-up be jailed, libraries shut down? This is a strange world, and the written word, which used to render things immortal, is becoming of less and less value. I suppose one of the reasons that I would never go to school for writing (or singing, or acting) is because when you take classes for something of that sort, they improve your technical ability, but also cause you to be formulaic. Whenever I used to get in trouble for writing errors in school, I would bring in a Stephen King book and point out to my teachers all the technical mistakes he made, and then point out how he was still a best-selling author. This irritated my teachers.
"That's his style," they would say, exasperated.
"Well, that essay is my style," I would say.
Honestly-- Stephen King is a shitty writer, but he is a good story-teller. Some of his slang and vernacular makes me want to break things, but the way in which he presents the information keeps the pages turning. There is a difference between a good writer and a good story-teller and that's why it always irked me when I was less than perfect in my language arts classes. I know I have a problem with fragments, but I wouldn't if I didn't believe in the impact they made.
My creative writing teacher had one big complaint: my writing was morbid and it landed me in the counselor's office a lot of the time. At the time, I was an angsty teen and it was cathartic, but I still passed, regardless of missing a ton of school. One day I came in, I was having a very hard time. My teacher was stern with me, saying I had missed a lot of work and needed to turn some of it in. He gave me a deadline.
"If I don't meet the deadline, will I fail?" I asked him. I needed those credits.
"How many times have you deserved to fail? I've always passed you." he said.
I nodded. It was true. What then, was keeping me from failing? Pity? I think not-- that particular teacher kept in touch after I graduated but eventually fell out of it. I would like to believe that I passed because he thought I had a chance and liked what I wrote despite the fact that they were fledgling works. I read them now and cringe, and wonder what sort of opinion he would have these days. It was odd-- the works I was the most proud of never got shown to anyone.
I have an amazing view out of my window-- the lights of the ghetto across the water. It always reminds me of the month of November... driving in the rain to get Chinese food at the best restaurant I know or picking up Dan. He was the one who showed me Tatu, but never forgot to make fun of me because I actually liked it. So long ago. Memory lane is one of my favourite places, and taking cruises down it is one of my favourite things to do in the world. The signs say 'no cruising', but who are they kidding?
I think that everyone should take a moment to re-write the song "My Favourite Things". Everyone has their own set, and the format is perfect. What are your favourite things?
I am angry that I do not know my heritage. Who do I blame these freckles on, this dog nose? The dishwater blonde hair and the blue eyes, The ruddy skin? Who? I envy the people who are ashamed of their heritage if only because they know what it is. In another vein, where does pride in heritage come from? Is it something we learn as we grow up from our elders, or is it something researched that makes us proud?
I'll dance to my anthem unidentifiable in the sea of all who know what and who they are and after all of this, perhaps this is what makes the stars. No times or places, no past or faces, we just pick what we want out of the sky. Orion's belt or the sweet electric lights that are meant to simulate space-- darling it's been so long. You drove my car and I banged on the airbag, keeping time with the cello and never imagining it could explode. We were exempt to danger. The only fears we knew were authority and that often couldn't bring us down in the Italian guitar and the sweet solace of the blue crushed velvet that allowed you to sleep before you were crippled by fear. I see and I say and we danced and we played and we found peace somewhere between here and Club Galactica. You will never have escaped my life without making an impression, and the one you left was infinitely beautiful. You were ethereal shapes shifting and a plasma that fit perfectly into the mold of a human girl. You were like me-- real. You were happy and that made the world light up, when you were sad the world died. Nothing ever had to be explained, you took it as it was and you taught me to cut class and I swear I never knew you that well, but you will forever be etched on my heart-- that's right. It can be someone you've met once or known forever but they all leave their impressions and hers is one I will never forget. If I wasn't so fond why would I refer to this glowing being years later. She had something to hide just like the rest of us. She was radiant and so much was determined with her. Hers was a presence that was everlasting. She sat in her car with me, made me feel as if the world was all right and convinced me that there was value in who I was. I had not always been that, and neither had she, but now that we were, despite the fact that it wasn't our choice, it was charisma. It was the sort that followed us around, that stared at us in cars and bookstores. No one will ever awaken the wide-eyed wonder in me the way that she did and most depressing part of all is that she will never know that what seemed to be fun and fleeting was more important than any words could ever express. I wonder where are you... I miss and I love you.
The sad songs that no longer conjure feelings of sadness, only a minute and miniscule beauty because we finally understand. We know that it hasn't changed, recorded word is still sad, but the things they sing about are reality, and we already knew that was sad enough.
You can go live in a box if you want to, but I fear you'll get sick of the dark.
current mood: indescribable
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6:18p - Janie's Got A Gun
current mood: zorak-like
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