Tapping the empty well

So I've been trying to figure out, for myself and for my therapist, why I haven't been writing more.

I haven't written in this thing in ... close to a year. I complained about my lack of a story arc. I think on some level an incomplete narrative, or a poorly written narrative is kind of ok with me now. I've made decisions, or hesitantly figured I might do... this or that. But I must do this or that first, like... to prepare. So I'm getting those out of the way. Not that any of that makes any sense, but I'm trying to build a syllabus for my development and maturation.  I've pretty much lived the last several years as a twenty-three year old in denial.

So in the last year, I've been trying to make decisions that would ... perhaps not ultimately lead to any lasting change, which used to bother me, but would ideally lead to some sort of greater knowledge or understanding in some way. Trying to take better care of myself, health-wise. Trying to open up to new experiences and options. Trying to accept that change comes in small steps taken in succession, and to be able to not beat myself up about how long it's taking. As it turns out, Prozac helps with that. Lots.

This has been a very internal process. I don't know why, but somehow in choosing this slow, brick by brick process, I've shut off my ability to externalize. I haven't been writing, except to my friends, who I can assure you, are sick and tired of me.

Possible reasons why I've internalized the process and refused to write about it:

It sounds like justifications for procrastination. All of my "sure, I'll apply to an MBA program once I get my shit together" sounds like a "I'll never get around to that because I don't have faith in myself". Not that it's not accurate, but I just don't want to have to be figuring out how to eat healthily and get enough exercise and take care of my emotional well-being while I'm working a full time job and a really demanding school schedule. Whenever I say it aloud, in writing or in words, what I hear isn't "I want to learn to take care of myself like an adult before I go about trying to take the next adult step" (which is how I feel about it), what I hear IS "I'm putzing about, just like I've been doing since I graduated."

I can't help feeling like specifically my weight loss plight, however successful, is boring. Nobody wants to hear me sound like a fucking infomercial. People ask, and that's nice and polite, but however proud I am of my achievement so far, I know it could be gone soon and I know other people are having a worse time of it. I don't even like to listen to myself talk about it. I feel... somehow... mass-produced, like I've subscribed to some sort of ... sickening pop culture standards of beauty. I feel like a hypocrite saying "Look at me, I lost thirty pounds, aren't I pretty now"? God, Blanche, shut the fuck up, please?

For a lot of this year, I was involved with someone I really enjoyed. I know that no one wants to hear about a good relationship. Bit me in the ass when it ended, but what can you do? That's how it goes. Honestly, the details are prosaic, and since I've nothing bad to say about him, the ending's boring too. Hearts break. As Placebo says in "Bright Lights" "A heart that hurts is a heart that works". Everyone's heard this story. People get together, they have fun. They try to make it work and it doesn't, but only one person knows. It ends, and the other cries. For the first time in my life my broken heart didn't make me want to write. I found the words I had for it were already written. By other people. Lots of Tool and Placebo. Didn't help that I tried as hard as I could to NOT think about it.

I guess another reason why I've been ... somehow absent... is that I've been avoiding it. Avoiding... release. I don't know. I'm afraid of... something. Some ghost that comes out of the page to tear my throat out and I bleed on the page. "Page" as imagined in the magical computer screen where life is written these days. I guess I'm not entirely clear what is so terrible about the ghost-me that lives in the whitespace but she's ... impractical. Unrealistic and intangible. I guess I've been trying for more tangible goals?

No, I've probably just been avoiding her because I don't like her. Or I don't like the me that she reminds me I am. You know, perhaps "Burger Queen" isn't the right song for this post... just a sec. Ahh, Puscifer. Mmm."Conditions of My Parole". Much better.

Seriously, I think I've just been avoiding admitting to myself that I don't find most of what I have to say worth saying. I'm focusing on these minor events and fixating on them to the point that I can't understand why my friends are still speaking to me, but everything else in my life seems... cliched. Self-improvement? I sound like a goddamn Chicken Soup book that pretty much makes me want to puke. A lot. Everywhere.

So I have to apologize here to my nearest and dearest to whom I've been speaking so much this year about the minor bullshit things that have been on my mind, the blah blah blah this minor detail of that thing that happened this week of whatever. What was that about? No idea, and no one cares. I'm bringing back fake names a la Livejournal here, so I am sorry to have bored you Beautiful Lover of D, Roxanne, Trillian, Luke, For Your Information, DragonFan, Peach Smints. Love you all and thanks for your help. I'm trying.

The title of this post "Tapping the Empty Well" comes from a poem I wrote several years ago that I feel pretty ambivalent about, but it's central metaphor and message proved applicable. Maybe sometime I'll share it.

Even Dante Hicks gets a proper story arch

Even though ten minutes ago I was bopping around to “What a wookie”, I have only just realized that I haven't any plot to speak of whatsoever.
I consume the plots of others. Of fictional characters, of friends, of family. I even try to influence the plots to see them all turn out right. This is all to mask the fact that my plot has simply stopped. Ended. With no true ending either, the author kinda sucks.
And “What a wookie” represents the intersection of two separate fictional plots, which only intersect at various places along my intellectual timeline. My intellectual timeline, however, doesn't actually influence the plot at all. It merely influences the themes, mood, motifs, and messages of the overarching plot. But there IS NO plot to create theme with, so there's … just... nothing.
Like that pure moods cd, where there's no mood to speak of whatsoever. It's just... washed out. Like an eight year old with watercolors. The blues the purples the yellows all look great, until you dip your brush again and they all get washed out.
My plotline is like that. Like someone dipped the brush into the water again and brought it back to the page suddenly erasing all pigment and purpose. Everything that makes a person a person and not a hard shell of overly intellectual escapism surrounding a vast void. God, does this remind anyone else of the Neverending Story 2? It's just me? Oh well. Kinda proves my point, doesn't it?
I do my best writing in the shower.

Reverberation.

I have always found that music that gets me in some way, will get me in a  certain place in my body.

Tool often gets me right in the gut, like someone's punched me really hard right where everything twists and writhes and churns. Makes me want to punch back, to destroy with the beautiful simplicity of the hydrochloric acid that fills us. A letting go, the urge like Fight Club, that is released when i hear "aenima", "H", or even "46and2". There is joy in that clenching pain. In that knock-the-air-out-of-you punch of the rhythm.

A Perfect Circle will get me in the heart. Where things bleed and mourn and die. Makes me cry for the love and hate and beauty and all the admittedly cerebral concepts that reverberate in the central muscle. Empathy overflows and the warring concept of man's inhumanity to man and "what a piece of work is man" bleeds out leaving a mono no aware shell. "3 Libras", "the Hollow" and even "Blue"

Some bands, however, depending on the song or the mood or whatever whim strikes them, (Admittedly often one such band is Puscifer...) , will go straight to the groin. The groin that fucks, that desires, that destroys. Makes me want to go mad in some ecstatic bacchanal. Like those ridiculous dionysian ideals i clung to in the ninth grade - well before i ever tried to understand any of it (not that anyone fully could). "Rev. 22:20" by Puscifer, also "God is in the Radio" by Queens of the Stone Age, and "Stinkfist" by Tool. Mmm.

Few bands that i love are a cerebral joy. Perhaps because there are no nerve endings in my brain. Mostly they include those whose lyrics are particularly witty and since we all know Lester Bangs' quote about rock'n'roll lyrics, i can't say that i find that very often.

Some bands will get me in my feet, too. "Pass that Dutch" by Missy Elliot, i can't help dancing.

I don't know if anyone else experiences this or if I'm over-dramatizing, but that's why i love this stuff. Likes waves in a pond expanding out to hit distant rocks or reeds and then bounce off, the notes reverberate inside me and out again filtered through my anatomy, changed and yet the same.

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like a tame cat trying so hard to be as wild as her tiger friends

Some undergrad inexplicably made me think of Ian H in high school. The kid probably walked a certain way or maybe it was a white tshirt and black floppy bookbag, but clear as day i was back in the CAHS cafeteria with him eating some disgustingly greasy substance and questioning whether it was truly dead. I remembered what he meant to me then. A walking symbol of where I'd come from and the utopia I'd arrived in.

I remember him in middle school but always apart, only because of the way it was there. People were separate. The stifling pressure of conformity. He was older, but always nice. Never gave in to the conformity or the separation. I looked up to him even then. He damned the man, and never said sorry.

When he transferred with Moni and me, i had no idea that would solidify our friendship in the way it did. He reminded me of my cousin and all the girls thought he was the cutest, which got weird a couple times. But having him around always reminded me of how far i'd come in my journey. I'd come to a haven of creativity and support and considering the desolation i had come from, i couldnt help ride the wave of elation.

I had never truly let myself believe that it would end. The freedom, the confidence that came with that freedom. We were all big fish in small ponds there. And therein lies the beauty of that place. We had the headroom to soar above the mundane ;)

I guess in a way Ian always represented that to me. The example of what one could become when one is freed from social prison and asked to BE. Perhaps i put too much on an adolescent boy, but people never know the effect they have on others. Just by being himself he helped teach me not just to trust myself, but the CAHS world too. A sempai, a mentor, a zen master. Hope he's doing well. :)  

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Why are thoughts only worth two cents?

Here's my thing about Thanksgiving:

Yeah, it's built upon a complete and total lie. There was no happy harmony between new settlers and indigenous people. There was only slaughter and smallpox.
This is not something to forget. I am not trying to forget anything about that. I think it was nasty for historians to TRY to forget that. To gloss over all the death and teach children some fantastical lie about turkey and corn. While slaughter and smallpox is a little heavy for young minds, I think it's inappropriate to lie to children. Doesn't help anyone.

However, I do not think that celebrating Thanksgiving as it exists today has anything to do with those stories. None. There's no connection between modern Thanksgiving rituals and that lie you tell second graders to pretend our ancestors didn't slaughter whole societies of people.

Celebrating Thanksgiving, as it exists today, is not about some ancient fluffy lie. It's about family and friendship. It's about sitting down and enjoying some food and company and taking a minute to feel thankful for what you have. Even if you don't have much, it's worth taking a minute to be glad. It's about a feast before a long, hard winter. It's about the harvest. It's about enjoying what you have while you have it.

Thusly, I haven't any qualms about celebrating Thanksgiving despite the horrific atrocities my ancestors committed against a full country of people.
We cannot forget the past, but we also cannot forget that things change. In time, meanings change and societies change and a lot happens in two hundred years.

In conclusion, a quote from a Thanksgiving special.
"A bear! You made a bear!"
"I didn't mean to."
"Undo it! Undo it!"

hounddogs

Makes me want my duct tape covered notebook and some black coffee. And chocolate cake, on some summer afternoon after the 11th grade. I do so love it here sometimes.

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A Memo to Men

You know how people always look at you just a teensy bit nicer when you're dressed up? When you clean up nice and wear a button-down Oxford shirt and nice, well-tailored slacks? People may compliment you and point out, with a note of surprise, that you look good when you don't look like hell all the time?

Let me impart some wisdom:
All men look good in an Oxford shirt. All of them. At formal occasions, when fully buttoned with a tie, men will look good. In informal occasions, with sleeves rolled up and the collar unbuttoned, men will look good.

The Oxford shirt is specifically designed to flatter a man's distinct lack of curves. It shows off the angular shoulders and straight hips with ease and elegance. I am convinced that that shirt is one of the greatest product designs of all time. Whoever designed it is some sort of Grecian sculptor reborn, etching the post-war man from blocks of marble in a Platonic Ideal ecstasy.

This is not to say that it doesn't look excellent on women, too. The angular tailoring of the Oxford shirt emphasizes the places where a woman's curves distort the angles and all my CAHS education is screaming at me to giggle "curvilinear lines!!" Thanks, Mr. Feeser.

My point is simply to clarify what perhaps you were never told before:
Wearing an Oxford shirt makes you look your best. When you flatter your shapes with the eloquent confidence of the greatest innovation in men's fashion, those who are turned on by the shape of men will act like total and complete idiots in your wake. It can only improve your hopes of a best-case scenario on a Saturday night, whatever that outcome may be. Waffle house? Yes, please.

When I talk to myself, I speak in thinly-veiled metaphor.

This is a flashback. Sometimes I've already said what I wanted to say. Sometimes, I said it years ago, in another time in another place, responding to the same question. This time, however, I'm really just talking to myself.

I was going to post Lawrence Ferlinghetti's poem "What Could She Say to the Fantastic Foolybear?", but it's obviously not mine, and this is my blog. Think of his work as the question, posed, not by anyone but myself. Below is my response to the question, written in 2001. Please remember that I was seventeen when I wrote this response. Despite it's faults, the poem is as true now as it was then.

----

Usagi's Lingerie

i haven't changed
in the least
i haven't though I have
everyone's different now
they all feel betrayed
and alone
i did not leave them alone
i left myself
for myself
i left my fears
and my excuses
for myself
i haven't changed
have i?
i'm still the me
you love
i'm still the me
with the mismatched
socks and the
pigtails
i'm still me
just a part of me
you didn't know
came out for all to see
and it scandalized the masses
i didn't betray you
you just didn't know me
as well as you thought you did

On the flip side - OKC addendum

I've been told, often, that I shouldn't complain so often about OKC if I never message people back. Or I never message people first. Thing is: I do message back. Sometimes I even message them first. I talk for a bit and they're ok. Then they freak out. I say something wrong and they disappear. Forever. Told one dude I like to color with crayons. It was true, I used to do it every week at Kafe Kerouac. It was fun! Relaxing social time with nice folks and pretty colors. Never heard from him again. Said I liked bloody movies - never heard from that guy again. Invited a guy to Havanna with some friends of mine. We'd been trying to hang out almost every night for a week. Never heard from him again either. I'm not even going to go into the guy that's messaged me three times, always in February, and asks me the exact same questions - all which end up with a "how do you feel about god" thing, despite the obvious answer on my profile that says I'm VERY SERIOUS about Atheism... "You know, I don't know how I feel about a hypothetical deity. Kinda like feeling something about gnomes, don't you think?"
Guys I've messaged first have often ended up annoying in a "I'm not really listening to what you're saying" kind of way, or the Negative Nancy type I mentioned previously, or the "I'm superhyper interested JUST CUZ you showed me the slightest attention" type. Yeah... sometimes I message dudes cuz I think their cat is cute. Not gonna lie about that. Doesn't mean we're soul mates. Also doesn't mean I wanna join your LAN party. Maybe I just want someone to talk to about cats.
So when guys (friends, mostly) come back and say, "you should give a guy a chance" or "you should start the conversation - sometimes it's hard", I can't help but say, "You know what's not hard? Reading. I could be doing that and get a lot more out of it. AND - bonus deal- I wouldn't have to feel guilty for no reason if I did that instead!"
I have enough guilt in my life without feeling responsible for the fragile egos of post-adolescent males, thank you.

On OK Cupid

Perhaps I am judging too harshly. Perhaps not all online dating sites are as frustrating. Perhaps I'm just a cynical bitch.
I just can't help that almost every time I receive any kind of message from OK Cupid, I sigh in exasperation. The exception is only if I happen to already know the sender (and even then sometimes. Really? Must you say that to me... ugh... Do you know me at all?). Whether it be "someone's checking you out RIGHT NOW" [creepy] or "SoAndSo chose you from their quiver"[awkward] or "DudeStuff sent you a message"[comes with free guilt], I know that I will be disappointed. And it's not always for the same reason.
Rarely do I complain over someone's looks. Honestly, I don't really care that much what they look like if they're an interesting person. So he looks like Tyrion Lannister. So what? If he talks and thinks like Tyrion Lannister, I've got no qualms!

Thing is, most often those that message me say something deeply inane. "Nice profile. Your funny. Want 2 chat?" Sigh. Or, like today, someone has a username that makes me uncomfortable. "Diabloblanco" is very similar to me as "ImAWhitey" and "HonkeyTime". Must you so clearly label your race when your profile picture (apparently you're sleeping with a stuffed lion - perhaps a dog) states it for you?

Occasionally someone says something interesting. Often it's "Oh, I read that book", but then it devolves into "I read that book and I hated it even though you loved it deeply. I thought it was boring, and didn't understand what the fuss was about." After I read that (which is often) all the rest I can read is "blah blah blah my opinion is better than yours blah blah blah" It is amazing how many men believe that the way to a woman's heart is to impress upon her the stunning brilliance of their idiotic and unsupported opinions. This isn't limited to books. It's even more true of film and almost ubiquitous when it comes to music. I don't get why guys think I'll be impressed when they tell me they think Kevin Smith is stupid. You already know I love his work. Why would your hatred impress me?
Actually this speaks to an even greater phenomenon among post-adolescent males. The Negative Nancy. Not only are most things stupid and beneath them, but all things that aren't are overrated. Tell a guy you like Cory Doctorow and Neal Stephenson and he'll tell you that Cory Doctorow has no idea what he's talking about and Neal Stephenson is boring and overrated. Tell him you like Quentin Tarantino and Sleater-Kinney and he'll tell you Sleater-Kinney is a whiny girl band and you'd totally like some death metal bullshit better (he'll make you a mix, if you want) and that Tarantino's a camera hog who knows nothing about film. Nothing is good enough for this man and you will never like anything cool enough for him. WHY should I spend time with them if they spend their entire hour and a half telling me my opinions are stupid? Yes, sir, that's why I never called back. Oh and also you're a drama queen.
Back to OKC.
Once I had a guy say, "I see you like Roger Zelazny. I have heard of him but may or may not have read anything by him." Really? Wow. That was a complete waste of both of our times. Are you a spy or something? Are you TRYING to keep information from me? You know I never gave a damn, right?
The chat feature is a joke. Invariably someone messages me. Says "hi" and then gets offended when I don't respond. Perhaps I'm busy or watching a movie or basically doing things to amuse myself not hanging on your every word. WHO ARE YOU?
Then there's these guys. Lots of them. "Hi there, I'm Sweaney, turned 43 earlier this month. I know that's 11 years outside of your posted age range, but apparently, I messaged you anyway. :)" Uhh... really? 43 huh? ok... there's a reason I have a posted age range, it's cuz I don't feel comfortable dating someone who could have had children who watched Ren&Stimpy. At least he didn't open with his "I like to get naked" line...
Guys who say "I was intrigued by your profile." or "I'd really like to get to know you." really just make me nervous. Were you truly intrigued by the biting sarcasm? Or was it the cynical jokes? The randomly goofy references to bullshit pop culture? Or the daring mention of tentacle porn? I just have to wonder if they get the joke. Get that it's on them and me and everyone on this ridiculous farce of a site. I should tear it down, but I keep it up on the off-chance that I sign on one day and someone genuinely catches my eye.
Perhaps I still have hope. Perhaps I'm bored. Perhaps I'm simply too damned lazy. Whatever the reason, I can't help feeling like the joke really is on me. Yes, you unwashed masses, please continue messaging me inane statements commenting on my taste in media. Please. It's what I long for.
And people wonder why I'm an escapist!

Do you need this in MLA format?

My hard drive (I'm lumping three into one) is full of random television shows. Lots of stuff from Salute Your Shorts to Deadwood. From Revolutionary Girl Utena to Ren and Stimpy. It's intense. I'm feeling the burn right now downloading... Veronica Mars or The Animaniacs, I can't remember. I'll have to do some shuffling later.
But I only have two full-length movies.
The Battleship Potemkin by Sergei Eisenstein and
Zack and Miri Make a Porno by Kevin Smith
Now, I have spent lots of time discussing, defending and basically preaching the gospel of both geniuses. Admittedly, I've spent more time discussing the genius of Kevin Smith than Eisenstein, but mostly because everyone knows how brilliant Eisenstein is. I mean, come on, modern comic art wouldn't exist if Eisenstein's theory of montage hadn't happened. That's just obvious. Seriously, if you don't know his work, look him up. You know that montage scene in every movie you've ever seen? It wouldn't exist without him. So take a moment during Team America World Police to be entertained by the contributions of a Russian revolutionary to that song about montage.
Kevin Smith, however, people write off as just a comic fan writing vulgar scripts about slackers, so I have to defend him. His insight into a 20-something existence is just as profound now, as I AM a fucking twenty-something as it was when I was an adolescent being shown what I had to look forward to. Dante's obsession with the bitch who fucked him over in high school, Brodie's tendency to ignore Rene in favor of video games, Alyssa getting pissed off at Holden for putting all that pressure on her and then Dogma's disillusionment and faith. I could go on and on about how great Dogma is. No one agrees with me, but I put it in a class with Dante and Milton. Maybe that's cuz I'm on the outside looking in. Anyway, Smith's ability to tell the truth is what's so impressive. He's true to his characters and doesn't make them do things they wouldn't. Ok, he stretches Jay and Silent Bob quite a bit, but that's kind of their whole raison d'etre. If you need this in MLA format, I'd be happy to oblige, just say the word.

Anyway, I asked Michelle earlier what she thinks it means about me that the only movies on my hard drive are Eisenstein and Kevin Smith and she said it probably doesn't mean much. She's right. Although, Kevin Smith wouldn't be able to do what he does, nor would those comics he so deeply love exist in their proper narrative form without Eisenstein's work. So maybe the choice isn't that random.
Let's be honest though. It mostly was.

Cotton vs. Kerouac. I love you too.

I have always wished I could clothe myself in books and music rather than simple cotton blends. Tonight i'd be a combination of Jack Kerouac's The Subterraneans and Sleater-Kinney's "Let's Call it Love".
I hate getting dressed because it never fully reflects my mood. Since my mood is always best described by books, movies, music and video games, its no wonder that cotton, spandex, wool and other synthetic textiles fall short of the narrative magic I prefer to envelop my consciousness in.
I buy any tshirt relevent to books I like. They fall short as well.
Outland tonight. Cotton blends.

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The cat

There's this cat that's been hanging around my house. Lounging on the porch in full view of Puck and on the front steps blocking my path. He's older, has long, sparse fur and is rail-thin.
He has a look about him, though. Obviously he's either sick or come on some hard times. He's not hale and hearty like Puck. But he's got this look of past might. Sad eyes tell a tale of glory and woe. I started wondering about his name. I could only think of "king" in various languages. Then I thought of Oedipus and his wandering the countryside a broken grotesque. I wondered if something equally horrible happened to my new furry neighbor. If "Roi" had befallen a terrible fate and exiled himself as his own cruel punishment.
A fallen king. An exiled grotesque plagued by his past strength and nobility. A one-was. Who are you, my Roi? Teasing the young man in a cage because you've lost all other ways to make yourself mighty. Blocking my path to cry for attention in a moment of tired weakness- a beggar king.
I named him Roi to avoid the English and Greek associations. I wonder if he understood that I've given him permission to lounge on my steps and porch? I know he understood and appreciated my friendly scratch on the head, anyway. Always be nice to beggar-kings.

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Forgettable?

As old as i am, it still disturbs me that there are times in my life that i can't remember. That there are some days that are utterly forgettable. Nothing significant happens so in passing weeks, months, years, you forget that day. You forget most days. It's all reduced to a mood or a feeling or an atmosphere that may give a lasting impression with nothing specific to give you a reason for those impressions. No text to cite as a source in your MLA formatted five-paragraph essay about why that day gave that impression. It's like the day never happened at all.
And what use does it serve if there isnt anything special about it? Thats why i used to keep a diary, because i wanted to remember at least something about every day. And I found that usually there was something that, on that day, made it unique. I'd write that down and move on. Reading over old entries from high school or whenever, I can't remember those things at all. I see that they happened because i wrote them down, but a quiz in French or someone coming to school to talk about drugs are only memorable in the short term, not the long term. It's the long term that unsettles me.
There's a picture on Facebook of someone dresses as me. You'd think that was memorable, but apparently not. I'd forgotten entirely until i saw the picture. Even reminded, all i've got is a vague bell-ring of an idea she'd had one day. No memory at all of her borrowing clothes and going to a party dressed in a Blanche costume. Then i felt bad, as if people dressed like me all the time, which they thankfully don't. It's awkward enough that someone did it once.
I know this is just the way our minds work. We can't hold on to every detail of every day for our entire lives. There simply isn't enough space. I just want to know when, or how often, i purge those files to free up more memory? Is there a disk cleanup function that reorganizes and archives my files to create more room for newer or more frequently accessed files? I just got a new external with 2TBs of space. Can I fill THAT with old days I've lost? I guess i'd have to compress them pretty severly. Maybe that's what my problem is. The pieces i'm missing are the pieces that are dropped out to compress the file for storage. The equivalent of high notes and low tones that we supposedly can't even hear. Our brain has filtered out all the stuff we wouldnt care about anyway to leave us with a hypercompressed file that's no longer a true memory but rather an educated guess about what probably happened. Like Katherine and my shirt. Obviously she borrowed it and went to a party, since in the picture she's wearing it at a party. I have no memory of these things happening, nor what the bloody hell i was doing instead of attending this party. I have an educated guess based on information i have about the general mood of the time surrounding this picture. Though maybe it's a minor detail, I remain disturbed that i have no memory of discussing or picking out an outfit for her to wear dressed as me, which may have been really funny. It's been compressed and archived and lost in the last great file purge, i guess. Sorry Katherine, my Secret Twin. <3

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Why CAHS kids don't read Hamlet

I'm having a "What a piece of work is man..." kind of afternoon. I know I'm such a CAHS kid. I know he was being sarcastic. I know he was a silly, angsty adolescent. But that quote sums up quite perfectly the majesty and the scale of human capabilities. Look at all this! Despite the horror, despite the bloodshed, despite the madness. Look at all we mere mammals have accomplished! Marvel in it. Relish it! I'm blogging from my little phone on a bus travelling on a paved road through a city. It's a small tribute to all humanity has accomplished since Catal Hoyuk(sp)! How is this not breathtakingly marvelous? Sometimes i just have to sit back and think, "What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in apprehension how like a god. The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!"- Hamlet, Act II scene ii, William Shakespeare. <3


Irrelevantly: Everything is better with chopsticks. ^_^

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Ramblings on A Perfect Circle and the Independence of Solitude

I hear "Brena" and I feel reflective and alone. Walking around Clintonville by myself listening to "Orestes" and, though I was an over dramatic sixteen year old, I was in hindsight actually very satisfied walking alone to the coop. I'd buy myself a strawberry Popsicle and eat it on the way home. A meandering way that involved as many trees as I could find. Crestview and the bridge over the Glen Echo ravine. Contentment coming as "Sleeping Beauty" starts.
I'd stop periodically and write in my notebook. The composition notebook with duct tape all over it. The first of many. Just things I randomly noticed during my walk, or insights about whatever problems I was having. Though I primarily thought about how crappy my life was and how everything was falling apart and I didn't know how to handle it, the walk itself was a peaceful escape. Got me out of the house and able to think by myself. And that album, Mer De Noms, was essential to that reflective atmosphere. I think taking those walks lead to me valuing them so much now. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything if I didn't walk before and after work every day.
I know I should be writing every day after my walk home, but I don't. I had so many notebooks then. Even if it was all crap (which it mostly was), at least I felt like I was doing something. Now I read too much or I watch too much canceled television. But in the same way, it helps me be comfortable with my solitude. The old canceled television and the multitudes of books. I have the time to walk and reflect, even if I don't always write it down. And I have the space and independence to be alone my way.
“It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” - Emerson. Or a paraphrase of Emerson. One of our infamous CAHS quotes, but I still appreciate it. I still try to live by it. Hell, after reading Hamlet, I can't live by “What a piece of work is man...” anymore so now I'm stuck with this one. ;) But I still do. I still strive to keep the independence of solitude in the midst of the crowd. I don't succeed often. My solitude is a lot meaner than my crowd.
Perhaps it's best I not keep that specific aspect of solitude.
I often wonder if I am able to share any of this with anyone. Like in a relationship or something. Solitude me. The me who is comfortable being alone walking home listening to A Perfect Circle. What would happen if I did share this me? Would I automatically change and suddenly not be reflective at all and become some soul-sucked girlfriend-girl? I have before. I doubt it, since I spend so much time being terrified that I'd become that girl. That whole poem no one read about “she told me”. “And then she hopped on a Greyhound and I haven't seen her since.” I edited it to say something else, but I don't remember the current version. In any case, the me who points out that I've become a soul-sucked girlfriend-girl can't get me to listen, so she hops a bus to anywhere else and doesn't come back. Of course, this is all told from the perspective of the me who's still in that relationship. In reality she came back with a vengeance once I realized I was ready to react violently if I had to listen to his inane ramblings anymore.
But I wonder if I don't share the solitude-me, is it really sharing? Is that a true partnership? Or would not sharing her make me so deeply guarded as to make it impossible to be around me?
Of course, this is all in the hypothetical land where anyone would be willing to actually date me. People ride unicorns there.
Probably the sharing of solitude-me does change it. The act of observation changes the attributes itself. Fluoresces the molecules underneath the laser, and the spectrum is rendered useless and unreadable.
I suppose it only matters if I did magically find someone. But I can't help wondering if the window of opportunity between when I last understood how to be in a relationship and my current state of contented and admittedly cynical solitude has closed. Maybe I'm too set in my ways now. I can't remember what it was like to share a day with someone. Share thoughts about nothing in particular, and share activities that are trivial, meals that are forgettable. I remember loving it at the time.
Now I remember... I remember having another body that wasn't my own that I knew very well that thought thoughts that weren't mine and felt things I didn't know. He liked things I didn't care about and didn't care about things I liked. He slept lightly and remembered things I couldn't.
And then there are times I wonder if I fucked it up forever. If, in fucking that up, I've wronged the universe and nothing will ever make sense until I can appease it. Bloodthirsty gods.
Yes, even atheists wonder if they've wronged some horrible bloodthirsty god. Just because I don't actually believe it doesn't mean I don't entertain the possibility. Considering the fucked-up and sad nature of everything I touch, I wouldn't be surprised if Kali were demanding a sacrifice. Sad, too. I rather like goats.

"You always bring me the very best violence."

Sometimes I wonder how much of this image people understand. How much people get that this is... in some ways the REAL me. Piss drunk starting fights in Annie's basement with dudes I'll never win against. I don't care if I win or not. Never do. It's the FIGHT I like. Quick release of aggression. People underestimate my capacity for aggression. Hour after hour after hour killing things. Demons, aliens, zombies, Nazis. Who cares? They're still dead and I'm still here with the gun. Virtually, of course.
First time I held a gun, I got a lady erection. Heart pumped and I got tingly and I thought, “This explains a lot about my life.”
I have theories. I have philosophies about human nature. Violence and sex are one but not and the struggle between the two urges are what makes us human. The ever fluctuating spectrum. Somewhere between violent chimpanzees and loving bonobos, human nature exists. Every human has the capacity for both and the urge for both, but in varying degrees. We must accept this duality as innate and search for healthy alternatives to the orgy and bloodbath. Find balances for our urges.
Ha, the Dionysian arguing for Apollonianism. See what I've become? Sometimes I wonder how much closer to my true nature I was in High School. Was I closer, then, to the true me? Or is the “true me” some bullshit Platonic ideal? Am I the shadow on the wall or the giant made of light hanging out outside the cave? Also? Who cares?
That shirt I'm wearing, with the flies? My mother bought that for me at Atlantis at King and High after Comfest in 1999, just before the tenth grade. I am the Lord of the Flies. Beelzebub. Somewhat fitting to wear it to a fight club, isn't it?
Dionysus vs. Apollo. Chimps vs. Bonobos. Gods vs. Monsters. Somewhere in there is Humanity. And me.

Zines and context - I've been prolific lately, ok?

Back when I was doing zines all the time, I used to be able to see an image in a printed media document and take it completely out of context. To see the image as it is, without explanation, without external influence. I seem to have lost that ability. To see an image or phrase out of it's realm. Maybe I grew up and saw the context of everything and my childish creation of my own environment died with it. It all has extensive cultural and situational context and I can no longer see it outside of that. But I'm trying to find it again. I'm trying to see beyond. I'm trying to build my own aesthetic back. Full of the wonder and excitement that I've lost, or maybe just toned down. Same old introspective and random Blanche. Just with older eyes.

Lies I tell myself.

In general, I don't get involved. I let everyone else run around crazy-like doing their thing. When I'm attracted to someone, they're so rarely attracted to me, I usually don't bother doing anything about it and try as hard as I can to quell the feelings as soon as possible. Distractions are the key. When someone I don't like is attracted to me, I generally ignore it as much as possible. I stay out of it. This crazy bullshit is more than I'm willing to deal with and I get frustrated really easily.
Sometimes, however, I do get involved. Usually, something I've been trying to hide from myself bites me in the ass when I was wrong and the person does actually have feelings for me. And those feelings I'd been hiding from myself weren't hidden very well and I end up making a total fool of myself. “Err... so it would seem I think about you a lot more than should be normal and umm... I'm sorry for not noticing it sooner because... my emotions should be sending me emails instead of impulses I will inevitably ignore.”
This happens embarrassingly often. I must admit to a few things.
1.I am an extremely cautious person and this extends to matters of the heart. I try never to give it to people who have any chance of completely rejecting it. Meaning, I am so cautious, I usually fall for people I know already love me as a friend, so that I know that even if they reject me romantically, they won't reject me as a friend. I am therefore safe. I won't be losing anyone, not really. And friends are more important anyway, right? Romance is expendable and you can always find someone else to fill that void (I'm speaking metaphorically, but yeah).
2.Apparently, even when I try to step outside my comfort zone and take a chance with someone I am not already BFFs with, I still make the situation as safe as possible. I put a deadline on it. Something cataclysmic is happening soon to make either the whole relationship or the emotional closeness something I won't really have to deal with soon. Just in case. Hell, even with Max I got together with him knowing we were going to different schools and that I wouldn't have to be physically with him in however many months. This made it much easier to ignore future consequences. If it all ends soon, there's no having to deal with the reality of the situation. Of course, that's just a lie I tell myself at the time, but it works... sorta.
3.The fact remains that I screw up every serious relationship I'm in. I mean, not that I've been in many but both of the serious ones, based on how long I was with them, ended in stupidity brought about by me. And they both had long distance factors. I called Colin that day and he automatically knew it was breakup time. I didn't even have to say anything. Max … well, Max wouldn't listen to me when I told him I would never be the girl he wanted, so maybe that's not entirely my fault.
In any case, I hate this crap. I often just choose to opt out. Most men who like me have something inherently wrong with them (manipulative bastards disguised as nice guys) to make me really not like them. When it does happen, it's always fraught with some sort of crazy. I'm crazy, he's crazy, we're both not mature enough to handle a relationship. Whatever, it all leads me back to the same place. Driving home listening to 46&2 very loudly and enjoying every second. Mmm. I'm OK with that. I made peace with my solitude a long time ago.

Back to Jack

Going back to Jack Kerouac's prose is like going back to an old lover. With arms you know and touches you understand. His prose brings with it memories of comforts lost. Of moments shared. Though i feel so comforted in Jack's prose, i know it cant last. That all i'm doing is pretending again. Im pretending to be the same girl i was then. She loved those arms and lived for those touches. But im not her. I'm someone else now. And as much as i hate to admit it, Jack's prose doesnt hold me the way it used to. I am loose in his grip and distracted in his eyes. Not that i know where i am, i just know im not there anymore.
Maybe thats why i switched to scifi/fantasy. There's always something new, something different. Some new epic adventure. I guess i've become the kind of woman who is distracted easily and doesnt get touched like she used to. Maybe that says a lot more about me than i'm willing to admit.

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