(Listening to: Zero 7 -- The Garden. Might change in a minute. Need more minor notes to write this blog.)
So instead of going to my neighbor's show tonight, the show I'd been planning to go to since last week, I'm here, sitting in my pajamas, on my bed. The wet spot on my right pant leg from where I leaned too close to the sink is really pissing me off. I don't want to change my pants. But I don't want to sleep in wet pants either. Everything seems just a little too hard these days.
Why am I here? Well, I need distance, for one. My heart is pulverized, smooshed and twisted out like a wet washcloth that you need to be wet, but not sopping. Perhaps saying "my heart" is an overestimation of just how much the neighbor has gotten to me. It's a mind game after all, one that he set up and I played right into. I'll be the first to say though, that I am probably more to blame for the situation. I mean, besides being completely hot, a musician, a gourmet cook/baker, a lover of kittens and a motorcycle repairman, he really doesn't do much for me. He's not at all interested in what I do, what I want to do, or how I live my life. He has a perception I suppose, and he's happy with that. I think it's lovely that he loves his life so much.
(oooooh. switch to Death Cab. This is getting awful.)
But the last time I checked, having a relationship with someone meant caring about their life too. Asking questions, or at least pretending to be interested in the answers. Understanding what they value, and respecting that. Maybe that's too much to ask of a 26 year-old man in a band. I'm not sure what it is about guys in bands. They get spoiled somehow. Perhaps they know on some level that being in a band instantly makes them hotter, and affords them the luxury of not trying as hard as the rest of us. They can afford to adopt a nonchalant approach to human relationships. People COME TO SEE THEM. They don't have to go see people. People, people they don't even know, clammor for their art, for their picture, for three minutes of their face on video. It's no wonder many of them (not ALL of them, of course), develop a complex.
So I didn't want to go tonight for several reasons:
1. I wanted to get more than 5 hours of sleep. I need sleep to do good work, and I need to do good work.
2. I didn't want to go to see the neighbor. I wanted to make sure I was going to go because I wanted to hear music.
3. I didn't want to see the girls adoring the neighbor. Jealousy is one of my worst secret animals.
I'd like to make a resolution now, to dismiss the neighbor, to be proactive about finding a new person. But I don't want to lie anymore about that. It still sticks me, right in the middle of my chest. It looks at me in the mirror, and tells me I don't have the right skin, the right face, the right look. It tells me my life is boring, and that my interests are unimpressive. It tells me that I shouldn't have said something, or I shouldn't have offered him something. It's my terrorbird, and it holds me hostage daily.
I might have to declare war.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Variations on a theme
(Tonight I'm listening to the new Seu Jorge album, dubbed Cru. You know Seu Jorge, the guy who covered all those Bowie songs in the Life Aquatic? Turns out his own stuff is awesome too.)
Today as I was practicing my flameco steps on the way to the dumpster (this is typical. I subconsciously begin practicing my flamenco claps or beats in many places: waiting for the elevator, cooking broccoli, brushing my teeth, even when I drum my fingers on my steering wheel. It's a sickness I think. Flamencoitis. Wait a minute. That sounds too sexy to be a disease.) ANYWAY, I was thinking about the new steps we learned on Sunday, and I realized that each dance has a basic rhythm, but each coupla (don't dock me points for my inability to spell in Spanish just yet) requires that you knock out this beat with different steps or claps.
For example, a rhythm that goes bump!-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bump!-bump! could be done entirely by the feet, or with the feet and a knee slap, or mostly with claps plus a uno tiempo (literally a step where your feet come down at the same time). OK, so maybe it's not EXACTLY variations on a theme, but for the purposes of this blog, I'm going to forget my perscriptivist tendencies and go with a little descriptivism.
So then I started thinking, like I do, you know, about life. And how my life seems to be about variations on a theme. Here are a few:
1. Fall in love with completely inaccessible men (i.e., the Baker).
2. Perfection is the only way to happiness (i.e. I hate myself when I can't keep my room clean).
3. Something will always go wrong (i.e. I feel like my cats are going to die and my apt is going to burn down when I'm out having fun).
It's so easy to keep creating variations on these themes. It's less easy to create entirely new ones. Think about how all-encompassing a theme is in a novel. How many papers you had to write about just one theme, and how once you figured out the theme was present, it was impossible not to find a million things that fit right into that theme. Looking at the list now, they all seem to look like weird birthmarks I don't want to admit exist. It's like I know they're silly, I know they're not a part of who I want to be, but deep down, I believe them. And I wonder if writers just put in themes inadvertently. Like they create these characters, and these characters interact, and then there is a story, and OOPS, there are themes there too. And I suppose I wonder how active I've been in creating my themes. Because it seems as though, if we're all writing our own stories, then surely we have control over the literary devices.
But do we have the option? To change a theme, even after 250 pages?
Today as I was practicing my flameco steps on the way to the dumpster (this is typical. I subconsciously begin practicing my flamenco claps or beats in many places: waiting for the elevator, cooking broccoli, brushing my teeth, even when I drum my fingers on my steering wheel. It's a sickness I think. Flamencoitis. Wait a minute. That sounds too sexy to be a disease.) ANYWAY, I was thinking about the new steps we learned on Sunday, and I realized that each dance has a basic rhythm, but each coupla (don't dock me points for my inability to spell in Spanish just yet) requires that you knock out this beat with different steps or claps.
For example, a rhythm that goes bump!-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bump!-bump! could be done entirely by the feet, or with the feet and a knee slap, or mostly with claps plus a uno tiempo (literally a step where your feet come down at the same time). OK, so maybe it's not EXACTLY variations on a theme, but for the purposes of this blog, I'm going to forget my perscriptivist tendencies and go with a little descriptivism.
So then I started thinking, like I do, you know, about life. And how my life seems to be about variations on a theme. Here are a few:
1. Fall in love with completely inaccessible men (i.e., the Baker).
2. Perfection is the only way to happiness (i.e. I hate myself when I can't keep my room clean).
3. Something will always go wrong (i.e. I feel like my cats are going to die and my apt is going to burn down when I'm out having fun).
It's so easy to keep creating variations on these themes. It's less easy to create entirely new ones. Think about how all-encompassing a theme is in a novel. How many papers you had to write about just one theme, and how once you figured out the theme was present, it was impossible not to find a million things that fit right into that theme. Looking at the list now, they all seem to look like weird birthmarks I don't want to admit exist. It's like I know they're silly, I know they're not a part of who I want to be, but deep down, I believe them. And I wonder if writers just put in themes inadvertently. Like they create these characters, and these characters interact, and then there is a story, and OOPS, there are themes there too. And I suppose I wonder how active I've been in creating my themes. Because it seems as though, if we're all writing our own stories, then surely we have control over the literary devices.
But do we have the option? To change a theme, even after 250 pages?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
I started to write this last thursday...
(Tonight our audio selection is music from the Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack. This is particularly appropriate, because I just got back from my first Latin Burlesque dance class. It was hot.)
I have a lot to write about. And since I like everything in chronological order, let's just rewind a little.
ZBWEREBWERBWEBNEEWEWEEZEEWE. (That's the sound of rewinding).
Sept. 30:
Yay! Today I am a quarter of a century old. I had an amazing day today. I began the day with jazz and tap. I then proceeded to the mall to do some happy birthday to myself shopping. I bought a dress at the first store I went to, but was so sick of the mall by then that I couldn't bring myself to do any further shopping. After going home to fix myself a little birthday dinner, I got ready for the Bowling Karaoke Birthdaytastic celebration. I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about this party, because last year's rollerskating shortstop extravaganza was so excellent. Mr. Prickles and I were sharing the celebration, so a we amassed a big list of people that we hoped would come. When we first got to the bowling alley, there were about four people there from our party, besides us. We had estimated and paid for 30. Crap, crap and triple crap I thought, no one is going to come. Of course, I was absolutely wrong. Our party guests started multiplying like kids with new calculators. We had to keep adding more lanes, and more lanes, until we had 10 lanes of simulatneous bowling action. I had three strikes in the first game, but people kept handing me drinks, so it was all downhill from there. After a few games and some minor ass kicking, we floated to the bowling alley bar, where they had karaoke. We karaoke'd up a storm, my friends, yes. I have to say it was HUGELY impressed by neighbor, Professor Puffiefro. He killed his songs (which at this late date, I cannot remember). Thalex sang my favorite Thalex karaoke song, Suffragette City. I sang Magic Man, which was a stretch for me, but I was, well, a large percentage alcohol, so it was fine. After about an hour of karaoke, Mr. and Mrs. Prickles took a lot of the crew back to their house for cake and chats. Mrs. Prickles baked a supberb cake, half of which was white cake with white frosting (mr. prickles is weird -- that's his favorite. I sort of love him for that though.), and the other half of which was chocolate. Extremely yummy.
There's a second part to this birthday story, that I almost hate to admit. Better to get it out though, yep. My neighbor, we'll call him the Baker (he bakes bread a lot), was very flirty the whole night. This did NOT help the little crush I've been harboring. He offered to wait up for me and make me a birthday martini after I got home. I figured he'd forget, and I was tired anyways, so when I got home from mr. and mrs. prickles, I was quite surprised to find his door open. We drank and talked until 6 in the morning. And nothing happened. Nothing. Which was good, for the sake of living a normal life in my apartment building.
And that's that.
Fast forward two weeks.
ZEEBEZEEBEBEBEBEZZZEEEESESSSEE. (May I present, the sound of fast forwarding).
I have a lot to write about. And since I like everything in chronological order, let's just rewind a little.
ZBWEREBWERBWEBNEEWEWEEZEEWE. (That's the sound of rewinding).
Sept. 30:
Yay! Today I am a quarter of a century old. I had an amazing day today. I began the day with jazz and tap. I then proceeded to the mall to do some happy birthday to myself shopping. I bought a dress at the first store I went to, but was so sick of the mall by then that I couldn't bring myself to do any further shopping. After going home to fix myself a little birthday dinner, I got ready for the Bowling Karaoke Birthdaytastic celebration. I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about this party, because last year's rollerskating shortstop extravaganza was so excellent. Mr. Prickles and I were sharing the celebration, so a we amassed a big list of people that we hoped would come. When we first got to the bowling alley, there were about four people there from our party, besides us. We had estimated and paid for 30. Crap, crap and triple crap I thought, no one is going to come. Of course, I was absolutely wrong. Our party guests started multiplying like kids with new calculators. We had to keep adding more lanes, and more lanes, until we had 10 lanes of simulatneous bowling action. I had three strikes in the first game, but people kept handing me drinks, so it was all downhill from there. After a few games and some minor ass kicking, we floated to the bowling alley bar, where they had karaoke. We karaoke'd up a storm, my friends, yes. I have to say it was HUGELY impressed by neighbor, Professor Puffiefro. He killed his songs (which at this late date, I cannot remember). Thalex sang my favorite Thalex karaoke song, Suffragette City. I sang Magic Man, which was a stretch for me, but I was, well, a large percentage alcohol, so it was fine. After about an hour of karaoke, Mr. and Mrs. Prickles took a lot of the crew back to their house for cake and chats. Mrs. Prickles baked a supberb cake, half of which was white cake with white frosting (mr. prickles is weird -- that's his favorite. I sort of love him for that though.), and the other half of which was chocolate. Extremely yummy.
There's a second part to this birthday story, that I almost hate to admit. Better to get it out though, yep. My neighbor, we'll call him the Baker (he bakes bread a lot), was very flirty the whole night. This did NOT help the little crush I've been harboring. He offered to wait up for me and make me a birthday martini after I got home. I figured he'd forget, and I was tired anyways, so when I got home from mr. and mrs. prickles, I was quite surprised to find his door open. We drank and talked until 6 in the morning. And nothing happened. Nothing. Which was good, for the sake of living a normal life in my apartment building.
And that's that.
Fast forward two weeks.
ZEEBEZEEBEBEBEBEZZZEEEESESSSEE. (May I present, the sound of fast forwarding).
Monday, September 18, 2006
Is a grape in the hand worth two in the mouth?
(Editor's Note: From now on, I will be listing the music that accompanies the creation of each blog. Today our selection is Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, c/o Pavement)
Today was bona fied strange. I'm not sure if I'm having a surge in hormone levels or what, but there was an onslaught of strange observations/occurrences/dreams that set my brain a little to the right of functioning normally.
For example, last night (or early this morning) I had a dream that I made out with a black dude. No black dude in particular, but a black dude. We didn't get too far past second base, because I remember feeling weird in the dream. Like I was doing something wrong. Not for kissing a black dude, mind you, but because I am resolved not to have feeling-less sexual encounters right now. The libido is powerful though, I know it's sultry call says, IT'S BEEN A FREAKING LONG TIME BIO-TCH! Oh well. Shut up libido. Your little libido-ey ass can wait.
I really need to shut that voice down, because it is good at making me consider people/situations I wouldn't normally consider. Usually, those situations end up being awful (see every freaking number on this freaking list. Except maybe 4. 4 wasn't completely awful.) I am working on not flirting with my neighbor. He definitely has no interest, and has multiple female hipsters who probably want to date him. And he's my neighbor. Bad idea, bad, bad, bad idea. Other fish in the sea. Like tuna. And yellow box fish.
ANYWAY, in my afternoon meeting we had snacks. The snacks consisted of various cheese triangles, grapes, assorted melons and crackers. The lady, not next to me but one person over, collected a plate of three grapes, a piece of watermelon and a cracker. For some reason, instead of listening to the presentation, I became completely fixated on watching this person eat, because she did a crazy thing. Instead of pushing the grapes to the side of the little plate, she picked them off the stem AND HELD THEM IN HER HAND WHILE SHE ATE THE WATERMELON WITH A FORK! I mean, that seems oddly dirty and inefficient, right? Especially if you have a fork? Ok, sure I eat grapes with my hands, but I don't hold them in my hand while I eat other things on the plate. The whole time I was watching her eat, I imagined her accidentally squishing one of the grapes in her hand, then trying to troubleshoot the situation without anyone noticing that SHE HAD GRAPES IN HER HAND!!!
Ok, ok, that was a bit weird, I know. But it just struck me a wrong and wonderful at the same time.
Today was bona fied strange. I'm not sure if I'm having a surge in hormone levels or what, but there was an onslaught of strange observations/occurrences/dreams that set my brain a little to the right of functioning normally.
For example, last night (or early this morning) I had a dream that I made out with a black dude. No black dude in particular, but a black dude. We didn't get too far past second base, because I remember feeling weird in the dream. Like I was doing something wrong. Not for kissing a black dude, mind you, but because I am resolved not to have feeling-less sexual encounters right now. The libido is powerful though, I know it's sultry call says, IT'S BEEN A FREAKING LONG TIME BIO-TCH! Oh well. Shut up libido. Your little libido-ey ass can wait.
I really need to shut that voice down, because it is good at making me consider people/situations I wouldn't normally consider. Usually, those situations end up being awful (see every freaking number on this freaking list. Except maybe 4. 4 wasn't completely awful.) I am working on not flirting with my neighbor. He definitely has no interest, and has multiple female hipsters who probably want to date him. And he's my neighbor. Bad idea, bad, bad, bad idea. Other fish in the sea. Like tuna. And yellow box fish.
ANYWAY, in my afternoon meeting we had snacks. The snacks consisted of various cheese triangles, grapes, assorted melons and crackers. The lady, not next to me but one person over, collected a plate of three grapes, a piece of watermelon and a cracker. For some reason, instead of listening to the presentation, I became completely fixated on watching this person eat, because she did a crazy thing. Instead of pushing the grapes to the side of the little plate, she picked them off the stem AND HELD THEM IN HER HAND WHILE SHE ATE THE WATERMELON WITH A FORK! I mean, that seems oddly dirty and inefficient, right? Especially if you have a fork? Ok, sure I eat grapes with my hands, but I don't hold them in my hand while I eat other things on the plate. The whole time I was watching her eat, I imagined her accidentally squishing one of the grapes in her hand, then trying to troubleshoot the situation without anyone noticing that SHE HAD GRAPES IN HER HAND!!!
Ok, ok, that was a bit weird, I know. But it just struck me a wrong and wonderful at the same time.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Liberacion
There should be an accent mark over the "i" up there, but I'm not sure how to insert that character. In fact, I'm not even sure that's the right word. False cognates can be a bitch. But for the sake of this blog, let's just say that word means "liberation" in Spanish.
This past labor day weekend, I went camping just north of Ensenada with a curious bunch of folks. Just to give you a little idea, I'll try to recall everyone's professions. Our troupe consisted of a nurse (male, how refreshing), four visual effects people (that's the technical term, I promise), a painter, a loader, an editor, a sound person (again, the technical term), two actor/writers, three people who's professions I did not seem to catch, one mastif-pitbull mix (literally a dog, I'm not calling anyone a bitch) and one school board staffer. I'm not sure if it was the beautifully clean air, the tequilla or the Bob Hope, but there was some amazing chemistry going on. Everyone just seemed to get along. Everyone helped clean. Everyone looked after everyone else. It felt comfy. It was by no means perfect, but it functioned in an oddly nice way. It was kind of like pairing red with pink -- you know they don't quite work together, but sometimes, in the right combination, they just sing.
We camped at this beautiful olive grove that was situated on the edge of a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. They had a path carved out of the side of a bluff that allowed you to walk down to the rock beach. I mistakenly did not bring my bathing suit, so I wasn't able to go in, but all the other kids played in the waves and even braved a boogie board ride or two. There were a bunch of surfers at the site too, so it was cool to watch them stand up on top of all that hydrogen bonding. Several rounds of Bocce (sp?) Ball were played, horses were ridden, s'mores were made and guitars were strummed. We climbed (and one of us fell out of) the trees, braved trips to the latrenes, snacked on fish tacos from the campsite taco stand and cultivated a love-and-santize relationship with the campsite puppy patrol (there was one doggie that loved us, but was definitely suffering from ringworm, or at least fleas. We called him Ringworm. Or Mr. Ringworm). We went to tequilla bars in town, finished buckets full of beer, and managed to jump a car in the middle of the highway.
Although I was so glad to sleep in a bed and take a shower last night, I was a bit sad to wake up and find my most excellent tentmates and campmates missing.
Sometimes you experience a convergence in your life, where everything just settles down like a freshly washed sheet on a bare bed. I was so ridiculously happy when I was camping, and it is making me breathe easier now. It was incredibly reassuring -- I was myself -- so much myself that I had a handle on the parts of myself that I don't really like. I had an unprecedented amount of perspective on what I was thinking and how I was acting, and I was really able to do and say what I really wanted to do and say. I had a moment of extreme clarity. I felt like I was in the right place at the right time with the right people. And I'm not just talking about camping. I'm talking about my whole life. I'm starting to feel...right. Like I know what to do to be happy. And what's particularly amazing about being that comfortable with yourself, is that the people that are really going to connect with you actually do (connect)(thanks, mr. and mrs. prickles), and those who are not, you can simply live with.
It's lovely. Like a Mexican half-moon setting slowly over a black ocean, accompanied by the soft bark of social sea lions.
This past labor day weekend, I went camping just north of Ensenada with a curious bunch of folks. Just to give you a little idea, I'll try to recall everyone's professions. Our troupe consisted of a nurse (male, how refreshing), four visual effects people (that's the technical term, I promise), a painter, a loader, an editor, a sound person (again, the technical term), two actor/writers, three people who's professions I did not seem to catch, one mastif-pitbull mix (literally a dog, I'm not calling anyone a bitch) and one school board staffer. I'm not sure if it was the beautifully clean air, the tequilla or the Bob Hope, but there was some amazing chemistry going on. Everyone just seemed to get along. Everyone helped clean. Everyone looked after everyone else. It felt comfy. It was by no means perfect, but it functioned in an oddly nice way. It was kind of like pairing red with pink -- you know they don't quite work together, but sometimes, in the right combination, they just sing.
We camped at this beautiful olive grove that was situated on the edge of a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. They had a path carved out of the side of a bluff that allowed you to walk down to the rock beach. I mistakenly did not bring my bathing suit, so I wasn't able to go in, but all the other kids played in the waves and even braved a boogie board ride or two. There were a bunch of surfers at the site too, so it was cool to watch them stand up on top of all that hydrogen bonding. Several rounds of Bocce (sp?) Ball were played, horses were ridden, s'mores were made and guitars were strummed. We climbed (and one of us fell out of) the trees, braved trips to the latrenes, snacked on fish tacos from the campsite taco stand and cultivated a love-and-santize relationship with the campsite puppy patrol (there was one doggie that loved us, but was definitely suffering from ringworm, or at least fleas. We called him Ringworm. Or Mr. Ringworm). We went to tequilla bars in town, finished buckets full of beer, and managed to jump a car in the middle of the highway.
Although I was so glad to sleep in a bed and take a shower last night, I was a bit sad to wake up and find my most excellent tentmates and campmates missing.
Sometimes you experience a convergence in your life, where everything just settles down like a freshly washed sheet on a bare bed. I was so ridiculously happy when I was camping, and it is making me breathe easier now. It was incredibly reassuring -- I was myself -- so much myself that I had a handle on the parts of myself that I don't really like. I had an unprecedented amount of perspective on what I was thinking and how I was acting, and I was really able to do and say what I really wanted to do and say. I had a moment of extreme clarity. I felt like I was in the right place at the right time with the right people. And I'm not just talking about camping. I'm talking about my whole life. I'm starting to feel...right. Like I know what to do to be happy. And what's particularly amazing about being that comfortable with yourself, is that the people that are really going to connect with you actually do (connect)(thanks, mr. and mrs. prickles), and those who are not, you can simply live with.
It's lovely. Like a Mexican half-moon setting slowly over a black ocean, accompanied by the soft bark of social sea lions.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Camp-pong!
Questions to answer:
1. Who is driving?
2. Who is bringing a tent?
3. Approximately how many dollars should we bring?
4. An idea about camping one night and staying in a hotel one night was brought up -- what do we think about that?
5. What kind of camping supplies do we have, and what do we need.
Yay! I can already taste the tequilla.
1. Who is driving?
2. Who is bringing a tent?
3. Approximately how many dollars should we bring?
4. An idea about camping one night and staying in a hotel one night was brought up -- what do we think about that?
5. What kind of camping supplies do we have, and what do we need.
Yay! I can already taste the tequilla.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Loft parties and neighborly advances
I'm at a strange place in my emotional evolution, I think.
For once, I'm not chasing a boy. I'm not consumed by an impossible relationship I wish would come true. I don't think longingly about anyone in particular when my mind wanders in the car. I don't go home dejected after the night is over. It's freaking liberating. Don't get me wrong though, a relationship would be nice, and sex would be even better. I just don't want to put energy towards making something happen.
And it's not like I have removed temptation from my path.
On Friday night, 8 and I went to a party at my colleauge's loft downtown. It was an incredible loft; one you would expect to find in NYC. It was very industrial, white walls with high ceilings and drop lighting. Old photographs and artwork covered the walls. Out the kitchen window was a perfectly framed view of the downtown skyline. The building even had one of those elevators where you have to pull down the gates and operate the lift via a panel of buttons on the wall. Seeing 8 in my current state of tranquility was excellent on multiple levels. I had absolutely no desire to impress him. I did not dote. My goal was to enjoy the people, the food and the wine. I let him take care of himself. At one point, he and I were talking to a somewhat attractive single man from NYC. This man and I had, I don't know, kind of a thing going I guess. By thing I mean we were having a good conversation. I thought he was cute, but he wasn't setting off symphonies in my head or anything. Our conversation was interrupted by the announcement for dinner, and our little trio split, at which point 8 began to go crazy.
"Should I have left you two alone?" 8 asked.
"Um, what?" I responded.
"You guys had something going there. He's so into you."
"Eesh, I just, yeah, he's cool, but I'm not into that right now."
"Oh yeah, right. Really, he was so into you."
"Um, could we drop this please?"
And so on and so forth. Of course, the night ended with 8 being all complimentary, spouting his usual, I have so much fun with you, you make me feel so good, blah blah blah. But instead of fixating on that, I took it, looked at it under the light, put it in a ziploc bag and threw it in the garbage. Realization of the evening: 8 is full of shit. I already have plenty of my own shit. I don't need any of his.
Saturday night, temptation wandered my way again, this time in the form of my next door neighbor. We'll call him 9. He is beautiful, smart, artistic. But I'm. Just. Not. Interested in all of the bullshit games that I would have to play to even begin to broach having any sort of romantic relationship with him. Plus, I don't even know if he would be interested in a romantic relationship with me. Double plus, he is my next door neighbor. If my some small chance we did have something and broke up, I would STILL have to see him every day. That would suck. I'd rather not even go there. Triple plus, both of my neighbors love my kitties, and I would not want to deprive my little fuzzy pals of their friends.
OH! And one other weird thing that's been happening. #1. Remember #1? He's been coming over lately. I'm not sure what that's all about, but I'll write more as that develops.
For once, I'm not chasing a boy. I'm not consumed by an impossible relationship I wish would come true. I don't think longingly about anyone in particular when my mind wanders in the car. I don't go home dejected after the night is over. It's freaking liberating. Don't get me wrong though, a relationship would be nice, and sex would be even better. I just don't want to put energy towards making something happen.
And it's not like I have removed temptation from my path.
On Friday night, 8 and I went to a party at my colleauge's loft downtown. It was an incredible loft; one you would expect to find in NYC. It was very industrial, white walls with high ceilings and drop lighting. Old photographs and artwork covered the walls. Out the kitchen window was a perfectly framed view of the downtown skyline. The building even had one of those elevators where you have to pull down the gates and operate the lift via a panel of buttons on the wall. Seeing 8 in my current state of tranquility was excellent on multiple levels. I had absolutely no desire to impress him. I did not dote. My goal was to enjoy the people, the food and the wine. I let him take care of himself. At one point, he and I were talking to a somewhat attractive single man from NYC. This man and I had, I don't know, kind of a thing going I guess. By thing I mean we were having a good conversation. I thought he was cute, but he wasn't setting off symphonies in my head or anything. Our conversation was interrupted by the announcement for dinner, and our little trio split, at which point 8 began to go crazy.
"Should I have left you two alone?" 8 asked.
"Um, what?" I responded.
"You guys had something going there. He's so into you."
"Eesh, I just, yeah, he's cool, but I'm not into that right now."
"Oh yeah, right. Really, he was so into you."
"Um, could we drop this please?"
And so on and so forth. Of course, the night ended with 8 being all complimentary, spouting his usual, I have so much fun with you, you make me feel so good, blah blah blah. But instead of fixating on that, I took it, looked at it under the light, put it in a ziploc bag and threw it in the garbage. Realization of the evening: 8 is full of shit. I already have plenty of my own shit. I don't need any of his.
Saturday night, temptation wandered my way again, this time in the form of my next door neighbor. We'll call him 9. He is beautiful, smart, artistic. But I'm. Just. Not. Interested in all of the bullshit games that I would have to play to even begin to broach having any sort of romantic relationship with him. Plus, I don't even know if he would be interested in a romantic relationship with me. Double plus, he is my next door neighbor. If my some small chance we did have something and broke up, I would STILL have to see him every day. That would suck. I'd rather not even go there. Triple plus, both of my neighbors love my kitties, and I would not want to deprive my little fuzzy pals of their friends.
OH! And one other weird thing that's been happening. #1. Remember #1? He's been coming over lately. I'm not sure what that's all about, but I'll write more as that develops.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
A selfish selfless act
http://www.bookeaters.org/
It's a benefit for 826LA (www.826la.org). And just get your wallets a-opening, this performance will feature Dave Eggers, Jenny Lewis, Sarah Vowell and the Mountain Goats. Go now and purchase.
It's a benefit for 826LA (www.826la.org). And just get your wallets a-opening, this performance will feature Dave Eggers, Jenny Lewis, Sarah Vowell and the Mountain Goats. Go now and purchase.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Apology
Dear Blog,
I am so sorry I have ignored you lately. I know it sounds cliche, but it's really not you. It's me. No, no, don't give me that look. C'mon honey bear, this is my apology. You don't have to throw that vase. That' right, just put it down...good...nice vase-y. I'm not sure why I've been distant. You are the engine of my true love (words). The glass jar of excreted subconscious musings.
I'm sorry. I'll never leave you again.
For more than a week. I promise.
So now that I have you back love, let me give you what you really want. Le scoop, as they call it en Francais.
I am torn up about Israel. My head and my heart are bombing each other with each new headline that flashes up on the screen. I've read the anti-israel propoganda, I've read the pro-israel propoganda. I check at least three different news outlets every day. At this point, I feel like everyone is guilty. I hate Hamas for their doctrines and practice of violence. I hate Hezbollah for hiding amongst innocent Lebanese. I hate Israel for killing people they clearly mean not to kill. I feel like Israel is a close sister that I just discovered is selling herself on the street. I am so disappointed, and yet I want to protect her. I want to protect Haifa from those Hezbollah rockets, and give her room to protect herself. And I want to slap her for killing children who happen to be in the wrong country at the wrong time. This is not the justice so many IDF troops have died for. This is not the kind of engagement our ancestors died for. Then again, maybe this is the only justice that exists. Man corrupts the most innocent of concepts. Justice is at the mercy of men.
Oh blog, I had to get that out there, sorry to bring things down.
I would like to tell you about boy number blank, but there is simply nothing to report. I have never been so out of love in my life. The idea of getting mixed up in that shit just doesn't seem worth it. Or rather, I don't know anyone that would make getting thrown into that blender worth it.
So I'll remain, bloggie my love, wedded to your words, wedded to the words I know, wedded to the words I have yet to find, wedded to the words I have yet to use, wedded to the words I have yet to create.
Kisses,
your ocelot
I am so sorry I have ignored you lately. I know it sounds cliche, but it's really not you. It's me. No, no, don't give me that look. C'mon honey bear, this is my apology. You don't have to throw that vase. That' right, just put it down...good...nice vase-y. I'm not sure why I've been distant. You are the engine of my true love (words). The glass jar of excreted subconscious musings.
I'm sorry. I'll never leave you again.
For more than a week. I promise.
So now that I have you back love, let me give you what you really want. Le scoop, as they call it en Francais.
I am torn up about Israel. My head and my heart are bombing each other with each new headline that flashes up on the screen. I've read the anti-israel propoganda, I've read the pro-israel propoganda. I check at least three different news outlets every day. At this point, I feel like everyone is guilty. I hate Hamas for their doctrines and practice of violence. I hate Hezbollah for hiding amongst innocent Lebanese. I hate Israel for killing people they clearly mean not to kill. I feel like Israel is a close sister that I just discovered is selling herself on the street. I am so disappointed, and yet I want to protect her. I want to protect Haifa from those Hezbollah rockets, and give her room to protect herself. And I want to slap her for killing children who happen to be in the wrong country at the wrong time. This is not the justice so many IDF troops have died for. This is not the kind of engagement our ancestors died for. Then again, maybe this is the only justice that exists. Man corrupts the most innocent of concepts. Justice is at the mercy of men.
Oh blog, I had to get that out there, sorry to bring things down.
I would like to tell you about boy number blank, but there is simply nothing to report. I have never been so out of love in my life. The idea of getting mixed up in that shit just doesn't seem worth it. Or rather, I don't know anyone that would make getting thrown into that blender worth it.
So I'll remain, bloggie my love, wedded to your words, wedded to the words I know, wedded to the words I have yet to find, wedded to the words I have yet to use, wedded to the words I have yet to create.
Kisses,
your ocelot
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
4:39
It has been so hard for me to get something down I am just going to write it all out before this song ends. It was in my head a minute ago. Perhaps it was, serendipity? Is that the right word? i don't know. please replace if it is incorrect.
Basically, here's the deal. I love 8. I am certain. I love him enough to say that I can accept the fact that I can't be with him. He told me yet again that he can't have a relationship with me. He said he thinks I am brilliant and beautiful, but that he is too fucked up to let me have a relationship with him. Fine. Ok. I get the picture. Perhaps I am not "in" love with him, but I love him, in that I want him to have everything he wants and be happy when he walks down the street eats a bagel sees a funny picture or bird. That's pretty much standard for everyone I know.
So where does that leave me. Sad angry hurt. Or cleansed. Happy.
Mostly out of time.
Basically, here's the deal. I love 8. I am certain. I love him enough to say that I can accept the fact that I can't be with him. He told me yet again that he can't have a relationship with me. He said he thinks I am brilliant and beautiful, but that he is too fucked up to let me have a relationship with him. Fine. Ok. I get the picture. Perhaps I am not "in" love with him, but I love him, in that I want him to have everything he wants and be happy when he walks down the street eats a bagel sees a funny picture or bird. That's pretty much standard for everyone I know.
So where does that leave me. Sad angry hurt. Or cleansed. Happy.
Mostly out of time.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Not your everyday kind of theraputic breakthrough
Something happened to me this week, and I am not sure how to describe it. It wasn't verbal. Or easily described by words I know, I should say. I suppose I have been building up to it for weeks now, months, probably even years. Something happened to me in therapy. Coupled with the stress of my kitty getting sick again (she's doing better now, yay!), I just lost my grip on myself. I felt it hit the back of my head like a cold stream of unexpected water.
And now I am off kilter.
Work is fine, I have a purpose there, I understand why I am doing what I am doing. If I can absorb myself completely in my work, and forget the internal war, I'm fine.
But every time I think about what happened to me during therapy, I feel sick. Not a bad kind of sick, the kind of sick you feel when you are riding the big plunge thingy at Cedar Point - that single second when you hear the car release, and you aren't moving. It's the kind of sick you get when you just barely avert a huge tragic car accident.
It's the first time in a long time, I have not felt the tug of desire for a relationship. The thought of being with 1,2,3,4,5,6,7 or 8 stresses me out and makes me a little bit disgusted. Not because those smart, beautiful, wonderful and ultimately tragic individuals hurt me or did something bad. I am disgusted at my behavior. The idea that I have wandered so far outside myself for the sake of something I don't even think I really want right now is reprehensible. But I don't blame myself. I am still working on the concept of friendship; it's no wonder I cannot/will not put myself in a situation that involves a romantic relationship.
Realizing you have a false sense of security in yourself, a self that really isn't you, but gets you through the day, is a painfully delicious experience.
And now I am off kilter.
Work is fine, I have a purpose there, I understand why I am doing what I am doing. If I can absorb myself completely in my work, and forget the internal war, I'm fine.
But every time I think about what happened to me during therapy, I feel sick. Not a bad kind of sick, the kind of sick you feel when you are riding the big plunge thingy at Cedar Point - that single second when you hear the car release, and you aren't moving. It's the kind of sick you get when you just barely avert a huge tragic car accident.
It's the first time in a long time, I have not felt the tug of desire for a relationship. The thought of being with 1,2,3,4,5,6,7 or 8 stresses me out and makes me a little bit disgusted. Not because those smart, beautiful, wonderful and ultimately tragic individuals hurt me or did something bad. I am disgusted at my behavior. The idea that I have wandered so far outside myself for the sake of something I don't even think I really want right now is reprehensible. But I don't blame myself. I am still working on the concept of friendship; it's no wonder I cannot/will not put myself in a situation that involves a romantic relationship.
Realizing you have a false sense of security in yourself, a self that really isn't you, but gets you through the day, is a painfully delicious experience.
Monday, March 20, 2006
My cat ate my blog. Honest.
Geez. It's almost been a month since my last post. When did I get so lazy? Er, um, I mean, busy?
Actually I have a good reason for not blogging, and that reason is...well, the fact is that...ok really I just...don't think my life is all that interesting these days. I have been making bad decision after bad decision after bad decision. And then I feel lonely. And then that wears off, but I try not to remember what that feeling felt like, so I don't want to put it into words.
The ordeal with 8 has had me in a strange state. In a way, I felt like he was my last hope for a good, loving relationship. He was different. Wiser, older, more respectful. Welp. So much for that shit. He ended up in a storage box in the basement like the others. And now I feel like I don't want another box. I don't want to go through the stress of opening myself up, getting hurt, and mending all over again. It is just not worth the hassle. My therapist says I tend to go for emotionally unavailable men because my father was emotionally unavailable. Yuck. So, I give up. I give up on men, and I give up on women. Either gender is going to produce the same result.
I have to leave all this counting behind me, and continue to really be single for a long, long time. Ah, the single life. I am all too familiar with that tune, but maybe that is what I am destined to hum.
Actually I have a good reason for not blogging, and that reason is...well, the fact is that...ok really I just...don't think my life is all that interesting these days. I have been making bad decision after bad decision after bad decision. And then I feel lonely. And then that wears off, but I try not to remember what that feeling felt like, so I don't want to put it into words.
The ordeal with 8 has had me in a strange state. In a way, I felt like he was my last hope for a good, loving relationship. He was different. Wiser, older, more respectful. Welp. So much for that shit. He ended up in a storage box in the basement like the others. And now I feel like I don't want another box. I don't want to go through the stress of opening myself up, getting hurt, and mending all over again. It is just not worth the hassle. My therapist says I tend to go for emotionally unavailable men because my father was emotionally unavailable. Yuck. So, I give up. I give up on men, and I give up on women. Either gender is going to produce the same result.
I have to leave all this counting behind me, and continue to really be single for a long, long time. Ah, the single life. I am all too familiar with that tune, but maybe that is what I am destined to hum.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Crap. I've lost count.
Before I start this particular episode, I have to give major, huge, gigantic props to the RainyDay herself for coming through for me in a clutch. She is my hero. She even experimented with soymilk pudding. I am forever in her debt. Toodles also made the multiple teeth extraction less painful with some QT and a DVD. Y'alls are the best.
I think I am up to #8, but I am not sure. 6 and 7 were both a little fuzzy and I am not even sure if they qualified for numbers, but because I like calling this one #8, let's just leave it at that.
Number 8. Oh number f-ing 8. What an ass I made of myself. I think I am finally beginning to understand why my therapist keeps giving me exercises to help me "be in the moment." I would venture to say that approximately 80-90 percent of my time I spend somewhere outside my body. For example, in a meeting about facilities for example, my brain goes to various places -- my vision of a good elementary school, what my elementary school looked like, that time when my two public school friends threw snowballs at me, the bills I have to schedule for e-payment, that building that 8 owns and I want to turn into a cooperative, etc, etc, etc. I end up missing half the information and leaving a ton of good ideas half-baked in subconscious land.
This, I think, is one of the reasons why I have so recently been speeding up all of my relationships. So when I am with I guy, and he is talking about how he likes me, I am thinking about the things we should see together, the places I want to take him, what I want him to teach me, what clothes he is going to leave here, how I am going to have to hide that giddy smile as I work, etc. etc. etc. It never goes to marriage or anything serious like that -- just those little details that I revel in. Because I envision them, I want them immediately.
Or it could be something entirely different.
One thing that 8 said that hit my most sensitive nerve is something I think I have resisted coming to terms with in all of my other relationships. After our second "date," he said something changed in me. He said that he felt I was more concerned with how I was "performing" in the relationship instead of genuinely being interested in spending time with him. I felt this as well, but to me it felt like I was nervous. I was nervous that he was going to discover that I was not what he expected, less sophisticated, less intelligent, and that he would just leave me. Yes, it was about me. Perhaps I am a narcissist to my core, but that is just completely revolting. I hate narcissism. Maybe I am selfish. I wonder if that is why I cannot concentrate on anything in a meeting, or sometimes in a relationship -- do I really believe my ideas are better or more important than the person in front of me? How terrible.
Looking back now, I think this is where all of my relationships break down. 1 and 2 definitely, and probably 4 and 5 as well. I second-guessed myself, my worth, my entire being.
Perhaps it has to do with self-confidence. The more confident someone is about themselves, the less they have to worry and the more they can focus on the people around them. Perhaps this is why the taken-folk become so much more attractive when they are taken -- they can finally afford to pay attention to others, and therefore become more attractive.
So, I am second guessing what I felt for 8, and what I feel for him right now. Did I really feel like I was falling in love, or was I just falling in love with the idea of him for my own personal gain? And even now, as I sit here wishing he would call, do I really want to talk to him to hear about his trials and tribulations, or do I just want to hear that he has been thinking about me too?
It's a bit of both, I am certain. I do want to hear about his day. I do want to make him feel better, I want to make him laugh, I want to figure out what makes him 8. Only in order to do that, I have to transcend insecurity. I have to get beyond worrying that he might leave me, because the truth is, he might. He might stop talking to me all together. He might hate the fact that I don't like to be "the talker" in a conversation. He might hate the fact that I don't keep my desk spotless 100 percent of the time. I don't want to deal with might anymore. I could might myself into a corner for the rest of my life.
If I am really falling in love with 8, I have to get rid of the "mights." I have to remember that he liked me, before all this, before I was worrying. Not for who I was worrying about being, but for who I was, and who I am.
I think I am up to #8, but I am not sure. 6 and 7 were both a little fuzzy and I am not even sure if they qualified for numbers, but because I like calling this one #8, let's just leave it at that.
Number 8. Oh number f-ing 8. What an ass I made of myself. I think I am finally beginning to understand why my therapist keeps giving me exercises to help me "be in the moment." I would venture to say that approximately 80-90 percent of my time I spend somewhere outside my body. For example, in a meeting about facilities for example, my brain goes to various places -- my vision of a good elementary school, what my elementary school looked like, that time when my two public school friends threw snowballs at me, the bills I have to schedule for e-payment, that building that 8 owns and I want to turn into a cooperative, etc, etc, etc. I end up missing half the information and leaving a ton of good ideas half-baked in subconscious land.
This, I think, is one of the reasons why I have so recently been speeding up all of my relationships. So when I am with I guy, and he is talking about how he likes me, I am thinking about the things we should see together, the places I want to take him, what I want him to teach me, what clothes he is going to leave here, how I am going to have to hide that giddy smile as I work, etc. etc. etc. It never goes to marriage or anything serious like that -- just those little details that I revel in. Because I envision them, I want them immediately.
Or it could be something entirely different.
One thing that 8 said that hit my most sensitive nerve is something I think I have resisted coming to terms with in all of my other relationships. After our second "date," he said something changed in me. He said that he felt I was more concerned with how I was "performing" in the relationship instead of genuinely being interested in spending time with him. I felt this as well, but to me it felt like I was nervous. I was nervous that he was going to discover that I was not what he expected, less sophisticated, less intelligent, and that he would just leave me. Yes, it was about me. Perhaps I am a narcissist to my core, but that is just completely revolting. I hate narcissism. Maybe I am selfish. I wonder if that is why I cannot concentrate on anything in a meeting, or sometimes in a relationship -- do I really believe my ideas are better or more important than the person in front of me? How terrible.
Looking back now, I think this is where all of my relationships break down. 1 and 2 definitely, and probably 4 and 5 as well. I second-guessed myself, my worth, my entire being.
Perhaps it has to do with self-confidence. The more confident someone is about themselves, the less they have to worry and the more they can focus on the people around them. Perhaps this is why the taken-folk become so much more attractive when they are taken -- they can finally afford to pay attention to others, and therefore become more attractive.
So, I am second guessing what I felt for 8, and what I feel for him right now. Did I really feel like I was falling in love, or was I just falling in love with the idea of him for my own personal gain? And even now, as I sit here wishing he would call, do I really want to talk to him to hear about his trials and tribulations, or do I just want to hear that he has been thinking about me too?
It's a bit of both, I am certain. I do want to hear about his day. I do want to make him feel better, I want to make him laugh, I want to figure out what makes him 8. Only in order to do that, I have to transcend insecurity. I have to get beyond worrying that he might leave me, because the truth is, he might. He might stop talking to me all together. He might hate the fact that I don't like to be "the talker" in a conversation. He might hate the fact that I don't keep my desk spotless 100 percent of the time. I don't want to deal with might anymore. I could might myself into a corner for the rest of my life.
If I am really falling in love with 8, I have to get rid of the "mights." I have to remember that he liked me, before all this, before I was worrying. Not for who I was worrying about being, but for who I was, and who I am.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
PLEASE HELP IF YOU CAN...
If you, or someone you know, would be able to sit in the dentist office for about 2 hours while I get my teeth extracted tomorrow, I WOULD REALLY, REALLY, REALLY APPRECIATE IT. The bitches at the dentists office won't start the procedure until I have someone there, and I cannot find anyone to do it. My aunt can't do it because she has appointments. My friends that are "unemployed" are out of town. Please, please, please, I am begging you, if you know anyone who could help me out, let me know.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Fear and the written word
Does it scare us to see our reflection? In writing? In photos? In a window?
For me, when I write down how I am feeling or what is going on, it becomes more real. Like if I don't give a situation the credit of the written word, then it never happened. It can never be immortal, it has no life. I think that is where you can draw the line between responsible journalism and plain crap. Journalists, writers of all sorts, make things, people, animals, immortal. That is why it is scary when our media fails us. It is scary when we see an outright lie on TV "news" or in a quote from a politician. Because that lie becomes more than a lie, it becomes living, breathing truth to someone.
On a much more micro and less significant scale, I suffer from a terrible fear of facing up to the truths in my life. I think I put off blogging because I don't want to face certain truths in my life. One truth that keeps staring me in the face is that I am lonely, and craving something more than the people around me have time to give. I understand that, respect that, I just need to accept my lonliness, and not characterize "alone" as bad. It's jarring though, when people just stop calling, stop remembering to invite you to things, and you have to start over with a whole new set of people. It's not necessarily a bad experience, just exhausting.
I am also afraid of facing up to the task ahead of me, because every day it seems to take a different shape. I try to focus on what I can, doing the best I can with the tiny tasks on my plate. I try to think carefully about my words, my actions, my ideas. But I can't help feeling like I am smashing up against a deceptively hard wall of clay. Sometimes I feel like people are just begging for someone to do something about everything. The irony is though, that if everyone did something about something everything would be taken care of. But men and women are not angels, and you cannot rely on human nature to correct itself.
I am not worried about the change to come, something will come, it always does. I am worried about my part in that change. Will I be an unwilling participant in a gross reshaping of that wall, or will I have the chance to break it down completely? Shit. It drives me nuts.
For me, when I write down how I am feeling or what is going on, it becomes more real. Like if I don't give a situation the credit of the written word, then it never happened. It can never be immortal, it has no life. I think that is where you can draw the line between responsible journalism and plain crap. Journalists, writers of all sorts, make things, people, animals, immortal. That is why it is scary when our media fails us. It is scary when we see an outright lie on TV "news" or in a quote from a politician. Because that lie becomes more than a lie, it becomes living, breathing truth to someone.
On a much more micro and less significant scale, I suffer from a terrible fear of facing up to the truths in my life. I think I put off blogging because I don't want to face certain truths in my life. One truth that keeps staring me in the face is that I am lonely, and craving something more than the people around me have time to give. I understand that, respect that, I just need to accept my lonliness, and not characterize "alone" as bad. It's jarring though, when people just stop calling, stop remembering to invite you to things, and you have to start over with a whole new set of people. It's not necessarily a bad experience, just exhausting.
I am also afraid of facing up to the task ahead of me, because every day it seems to take a different shape. I try to focus on what I can, doing the best I can with the tiny tasks on my plate. I try to think carefully about my words, my actions, my ideas. But I can't help feeling like I am smashing up against a deceptively hard wall of clay. Sometimes I feel like people are just begging for someone to do something about everything. The irony is though, that if everyone did something about something everything would be taken care of. But men and women are not angels, and you cannot rely on human nature to correct itself.
I am not worried about the change to come, something will come, it always does. I am worried about my part in that change. Will I be an unwilling participant in a gross reshaping of that wall, or will I have the chance to break it down completely? Shit. It drives me nuts.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Law and (dis)order
Dang. That is the second time I used parentheses in a title. I need to stop that.
So I am sitting here, listening to #2's recently recorded work. From an absolutely objective point of view (stop laughing hyserically), it is fucking incredible. Do you ever have those CDs that just completely floor you -- those CDs that you can't listen to in the car, because you will drive off the road? Upon first listening to the CD, I had to stop washing dishes, turn up the volume and lie on the floor to take in the music. (If you are averted to cheese, skip this next part, and forget I ever wrote it). Maybe it's his voice, or that I can picture him singing. Or the fact that there are about 14 layers in every song. Dammit, you know? I was doing a good job of erasing my romantic feelings for him, and he has to go an make an amazing piece of music. Leaves and dirt, leaves and dirt.
Aside from this rather gut-wrenching moment, I had a fantastic day today, because I realized that yes, I am going to law school, for real. I took a practice LSAT, and scored exactly average (150). Now all I have to do is raise that score by 20 points. Most people say that you can't raise your score more than 10 points, even if you study really hard, but screw that. I can take this test, and I am going to get a 170, end of story.
So I am sitting here, listening to #2's recently recorded work. From an absolutely objective point of view (stop laughing hyserically), it is fucking incredible. Do you ever have those CDs that just completely floor you -- those CDs that you can't listen to in the car, because you will drive off the road? Upon first listening to the CD, I had to stop washing dishes, turn up the volume and lie on the floor to take in the music. (If you are averted to cheese, skip this next part, and forget I ever wrote it). Maybe it's his voice, or that I can picture him singing. Or the fact that there are about 14 layers in every song. Dammit, you know? I was doing a good job of erasing my romantic feelings for him, and he has to go an make an amazing piece of music. Leaves and dirt, leaves and dirt.
Aside from this rather gut-wrenching moment, I had a fantastic day today, because I realized that yes, I am going to law school, for real. I took a practice LSAT, and scored exactly average (150). Now all I have to do is raise that score by 20 points. Most people say that you can't raise your score more than 10 points, even if you study really hard, but screw that. I can take this test, and I am going to get a 170, end of story.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Patience is a virtue (that I don't have)
I could wait forever for a student to write a sentence. Spend an hour with a kid refusing to talk about their bad day. I can wait through 10 hour meetings, just to hear a motion read. I can wait for paint to dry on a canvas. I can wait for the right word at the right moment in the right paragraph.
But I cannot seem to wait for the right person to come along.
I'll get myself into pseudo-right situations, and then convince myself the rest of the way. Then, when it is made clear to me that it is not the right situation, I am suddenly surprised and sink into a state of post-rejection depression, when in fact I rejected the situation much earlier in the relationship. It's damaging, and I know people offer warnings against it before I get too deep, but I never heed them.
I don't need to have any more experience with dating, or hooking up or whatever. I am ready, I want that relationship. Only I don't want it with anyone I know, and I don't know when I am going to meet the person that I will want it with. Oh yeah, and I am tired of waiting for them.
I hate to generalize, but it seems like everyone around me has little to no problem finding these things. Perhaps they are more relaxed about things, they don't think about "the chase," they let themselves be chased. But shit man, what if no one is chasing you? Or you don't like the ones that are chasing? When do you start compromising your standards? 26? 29? 31? Eventually you start seeing your life without a partner, realize going solo is not only subversively frowned upon by society, but by your friends as well. You become the one always going home alone, waking up alone, dancing alone. There is only so much pride you can take in your independence before it becomes too much, and you want to hermit up. You want to shut yourself in, because outside, there are lots of people mocking you and your independence. Dinner tables with two chairs. Stares at the movie theater when you ask for one ticket. Flashes of pity as you sip your solitary martini. The cold spot on the other side of the bed.
So I'll stop trying to encourage the chase, dismiss suspicious glances, and brush off convention. I'll steel myself to couples-speak. Stop imagining what it might be like to be in her position. Stop trying to rush the time-space continuum. I'll pick up projects and work on being good. Hopefully, one day, i'll be good enough for someone.
But I cannot seem to wait for the right person to come along.
I'll get myself into pseudo-right situations, and then convince myself the rest of the way. Then, when it is made clear to me that it is not the right situation, I am suddenly surprised and sink into a state of post-rejection depression, when in fact I rejected the situation much earlier in the relationship. It's damaging, and I know people offer warnings against it before I get too deep, but I never heed them.
I don't need to have any more experience with dating, or hooking up or whatever. I am ready, I want that relationship. Only I don't want it with anyone I know, and I don't know when I am going to meet the person that I will want it with. Oh yeah, and I am tired of waiting for them.
I hate to generalize, but it seems like everyone around me has little to no problem finding these things. Perhaps they are more relaxed about things, they don't think about "the chase," they let themselves be chased. But shit man, what if no one is chasing you? Or you don't like the ones that are chasing? When do you start compromising your standards? 26? 29? 31? Eventually you start seeing your life without a partner, realize going solo is not only subversively frowned upon by society, but by your friends as well. You become the one always going home alone, waking up alone, dancing alone. There is only so much pride you can take in your independence before it becomes too much, and you want to hermit up. You want to shut yourself in, because outside, there are lots of people mocking you and your independence. Dinner tables with two chairs. Stares at the movie theater when you ask for one ticket. Flashes of pity as you sip your solitary martini. The cold spot on the other side of the bed.
So I'll stop trying to encourage the chase, dismiss suspicious glances, and brush off convention. I'll steel myself to couples-speak. Stop imagining what it might be like to be in her position. Stop trying to rush the time-space continuum. I'll pick up projects and work on being good. Hopefully, one day, i'll be good enough for someone.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Tagged? I thought that was just for desks.
ShaniquaP tagged me with these questions, so fine, here goes.
Four jobs they couldn’t pay you enough to do:global economy assasin, Halliburton stooge, Bush for Emperor Campaign manager, Rainforest destroyer, vet (I could not stand to euthenize (sp?) the animals).
Four movies you used to love and watched over and over to the point that now you have them memorized and the prospect of watching them again causes your eyeballs to bleed: Coming to America, Clueless, Star Wars IV-VI, Willow (though I don't own any of these!)
Alternatively, four movies you loved when you saw them in the theater but don’t dare watch again for fear they won’t hold up: I can't remember???
Four places in the United States you've always thanked God you don't live even when you were living in ______ (I filled in the blank with Chardon, OH.): rural Mississippi, Detroit (sorry D-town fans, that city is just scary), Peru, Ind., West Texas.
Four places you would like to visit on an extended vacation: Paris, Morocco, Italy, Spain.
Four TV shows you are strangely tempted to watch but have so far resisted: (easy to do when you don't have a tube) Extreme Makeover, Desparate Housewives, Veronica Mars, and I don't know the names of TV shows anymore. shit.
Four foods you don’t really like and can’t understand why you eat them but you eat them anyway and feel bad about it afterwards: candy of any sort (lollypops, jellybeans, starburst, etc. etc.) that does not involve chocolate. And not crap chocolate, good chocolate. Although I do like a good sour patch kid every once in a while.
Four albums you never listen to anymore but can’t bring yourself to trade in at Tower Records: (I don't really own CDs per se, but here are some mp3 albums) Butterfly Boucher, Frou Frou, Keane, Interpol.
Four places you’d rather be but sadly won’t be any time soon: Paris, the Galapagos Islands, Paris, and a little place called the Marais in Paris.
Four jobs they couldn’t pay you enough to do:global economy assasin, Halliburton stooge, Bush for Emperor Campaign manager, Rainforest destroyer, vet (I could not stand to euthenize (sp?) the animals).
Four movies you used to love and watched over and over to the point that now you have them memorized and the prospect of watching them again causes your eyeballs to bleed: Coming to America, Clueless, Star Wars IV-VI, Willow (though I don't own any of these!)
Alternatively, four movies you loved when you saw them in the theater but don’t dare watch again for fear they won’t hold up: I can't remember???
Four places in the United States you've always thanked God you don't live even when you were living in ______ (I filled in the blank with Chardon, OH.): rural Mississippi, Detroit (sorry D-town fans, that city is just scary), Peru, Ind., West Texas.
Four places you would like to visit on an extended vacation: Paris, Morocco, Italy, Spain.
Four TV shows you are strangely tempted to watch but have so far resisted: (easy to do when you don't have a tube) Extreme Makeover, Desparate Housewives, Veronica Mars, and I don't know the names of TV shows anymore. shit.
Four foods you don’t really like and can’t understand why you eat them but you eat them anyway and feel bad about it afterwards: candy of any sort (lollypops, jellybeans, starburst, etc. etc.) that does not involve chocolate. And not crap chocolate, good chocolate. Although I do like a good sour patch kid every once in a while.
Four albums you never listen to anymore but can’t bring yourself to trade in at Tower Records: (I don't really own CDs per se, but here are some mp3 albums) Butterfly Boucher, Frou Frou, Keane, Interpol.
Four places you’d rather be but sadly won’t be any time soon: Paris, the Galapagos Islands, Paris, and a little place called the Marais in Paris.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
David Stephen Bowie Malkmus
I love these men. I just wanted to declare that, so I remember what I was listening to when I turn old and gray. I wonder what my grandkids are going to say when I put the old mp3 on our fully integrated home entertainment system.
In a shakey, nostalgic voice I will say:
"Well kiddo, when I was just a little older than you, I fell in love. No, ho ho ho, no, not with your grand(father? mother?), but with two men! Yes, David Bowie and Stephen Malkmus. I spent long hours in front of my iBook listening to that chap. Heh."
And they will laugh at me, for using an iBook and for being a silly grandma. And then they will tell me stories about the simulations they completed in school. And all will be right and good with the world. Or what will be left of it at that point.
In a shakey, nostalgic voice I will say:
"Well kiddo, when I was just a little older than you, I fell in love. No, ho ho ho, no, not with your grand(father? mother?), but with two men! Yes, David Bowie and Stephen Malkmus. I spent long hours in front of my iBook listening to that chap. Heh."
And they will laugh at me, for using an iBook and for being a silly grandma. And then they will tell me stories about the simulations they completed in school. And all will be right and good with the world. Or what will be left of it at that point.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Fifty percent of nothing
It's been almost three weeks since my last post. Shit that's a long time. I have tried to approach the computer several times since my last post, but I think I have been afraid of facing the truth, or at least putting it in words. And it is startling just how many truths one has to face up to if one waits long enough. But here it is, 2006, a year from last year's hangover, I might as well start facing reality's sandpaper sooner rather than later.
So, let me start with 2. I got pissed at 2, and after a night of drinking last week, I called him. He was on his way home, slighly tipsy. I asked him to come over. He refused. Why, I said, getting impatient. It's not a good idea he said, you know it, I know it, let's just leave it at that. But you f-ed things up I said, losing my patience. I thought I made it pretty clear, we cannot have a relationship like you want, he insisted. Like I want!?!? Like I want?!?! I exclaimed, what the hell was last week all about?!?!?!?!?
I don't really remember what was said exactly, I think I am trying to block it out of my mind, but he mostly rescinded everything he said on that fateful Saturday. He said he was fed up with the constant imbalance in the relationship, me always liking him more than he likes me. To that I say, thibitthibitthibit. I will not dignify that kind of ego-babble bullshit with a response. He can take his perfect india ink eyes and 180million IQ and go f with another girl's head. Yes, I still love him, but I am not going to put myself through his shit in pursuit of some relationship that would probably be detrimental in the long run.
Whew. Moving on. StaceyShaniquaP came to visit last week. I am just going to list some key words:
Magic Castle
Magicians at Mel's
Holiday party with the boss
Ecstasy with Shmallie, followed by Little Tokyo Sushi delights
Akbar boys love akbar boys
4100 french martinis and the politics of journalism in LA
A hungover run around the reservoir
Reunion over hamentashen and bad jam bands
5 am flight to SFO
And done. Clearly, it was the best three days of SSP's life in Los Angeles. ;)
New Years, now that was an experience. As tradition dictates, I spent the first part of the evening enjoying new years soup at my sister's friend's house. My sister and brother-in-law drive down every year to have new years with these particular pals, and since I have been in LA, I too have reaped the benefits of these visits. Why soup on new years? It's a secret. So there. Ha. The second part of the night, well, I went somewhere new, I drank something (or somethings new), I did some bad things. All in all, it was fantastic. A rather tame, and yet, refreshing new years.
One of my bad new years deeds left me thinking about something though, something I am all too willing to discard. When I do these things, with 2, with 4, with whoever, I am at least 50 percent responsible. More than often, I am always aware of what I am getting myself into, and I do it anyways. I am not sure why i crave these emotionally irresponsible situations. The logical person would say, um, hello, you WANT a relationship right now, why are you f-ing around with non-relationship situations? Instead, I say, OH BOY! FUN! WHAT CAN I GET MYSELF INTO TODAY???
Perhaps my new years resolution should be to listen to that logical person.
So, let me start with 2. I got pissed at 2, and after a night of drinking last week, I called him. He was on his way home, slighly tipsy. I asked him to come over. He refused. Why, I said, getting impatient. It's not a good idea he said, you know it, I know it, let's just leave it at that. But you f-ed things up I said, losing my patience. I thought I made it pretty clear, we cannot have a relationship like you want, he insisted. Like I want!?!? Like I want?!?! I exclaimed, what the hell was last week all about?!?!?!?!?
I don't really remember what was said exactly, I think I am trying to block it out of my mind, but he mostly rescinded everything he said on that fateful Saturday. He said he was fed up with the constant imbalance in the relationship, me always liking him more than he likes me. To that I say, thibitthibitthibit. I will not dignify that kind of ego-babble bullshit with a response. He can take his perfect india ink eyes and 180million IQ and go f with another girl's head. Yes, I still love him, but I am not going to put myself through his shit in pursuit of some relationship that would probably be detrimental in the long run.
Whew. Moving on. StaceyShaniquaP came to visit last week. I am just going to list some key words:
Magic Castle
Magicians at Mel's
Holiday party with the boss
Ecstasy with Shmallie, followed by Little Tokyo Sushi delights
Akbar boys love akbar boys
4100 french martinis and the politics of journalism in LA
A hungover run around the reservoir
Reunion over hamentashen and bad jam bands
5 am flight to SFO
And done. Clearly, it was the best three days of SSP's life in Los Angeles. ;)
New Years, now that was an experience. As tradition dictates, I spent the first part of the evening enjoying new years soup at my sister's friend's house. My sister and brother-in-law drive down every year to have new years with these particular pals, and since I have been in LA, I too have reaped the benefits of these visits. Why soup on new years? It's a secret. So there. Ha. The second part of the night, well, I went somewhere new, I drank something (or somethings new), I did some bad things. All in all, it was fantastic. A rather tame, and yet, refreshing new years.
One of my bad new years deeds left me thinking about something though, something I am all too willing to discard. When I do these things, with 2, with 4, with whoever, I am at least 50 percent responsible. More than often, I am always aware of what I am getting myself into, and I do it anyways. I am not sure why i crave these emotionally irresponsible situations. The logical person would say, um, hello, you WANT a relationship right now, why are you f-ing around with non-relationship situations? Instead, I say, OH BOY! FUN! WHAT CAN I GET MYSELF INTO TODAY???
Perhaps my new years resolution should be to listen to that logical person.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)