I started a game of Go against myself while I was waiting for my pasta to boil, then Keith took over for white while I continued to cook and keep both eyes on the salmon, then Josiah took over for Keith and my playing went from cautiously confident to struggling to stay connected. There was no flow to the board, my playing was mostly reactionary and evasive. I was intimidated; I hadn't expected to play him until at least a few weeks (months?) from now. And I let myself be intimidated. Not to mention he took over at a point where I had realized my grip on the played out half of the board was gone, and a few moves into playing with him realized I should just resign. I wanted to take the opportunity to try out some strategies where I play skipping ahead one step to make my moves more efficient. Didn't quite work out how I wanted it to. But I did see the advantage to leaving the center alone to work on unfinished corners and then resuming my work on them again. I just need to find the right time to do so. And I need to practice more. I'm reveling in how difficult it is to keep track of everything at once; for someone with a memory like mine, a challenge like this doesn't come along every day.
My spongebrain needs these things. Feeds off of them. Like with violin, soaking in it and squealing with joy every time I find something else difficult to do.
Doing a run with the boys and sitting next to him in the car. Watching his tired face with its soft lips and sweeping eyelashes out of the corner of my eye. Recalling the solid weight of his arms, how it feels to touch the short hairs along the back of his head, the loud pounding of the bold heart in his chest.
Stuff as dreams are made of.
10.26.2007
Mike and I spent three something hours playing Go and he pointed a ton of things out to me. I'm picking it up quickly, not even halfway through the book I borrowed and I can already use the techniques adequately, sometimes even effectively. Mike knows enough to get me a fair way into it. He's good at explaining the aspects of different position advantages/disadvantages.
My violin fingering is markedly better tonight than the first night I practiced. I have little to no issue playing an open string next to fingered ones. Now all I need to do is get my music reading abilities to the point where I can recognize them on sight.
Konaka san wrote another anime series (Shinreigari) that I caught just as it began airing in Japan a week ago, so I am wholeheartedly digging into that. I have been waiting so long and it's finally here. He is my most favorite of screenplay writers. One episode through and it's already exactly as I would have it: dualities all over the place, with the most meaningful microscopic details you don't catch unless you're really looking, and the strangest mix of characters. All of these crazy lucid dreaming, out-of-body, psychological horror elements. Mmm. Inspiring.
My novel plot has taken a turn for the strange. I had a small fit of revelations driving from work to the house today before the funeral; a bunch of things I've been reading about have all come together. Quantum reflections and paradoxes and parallel realities, electric fields, the uncertainty principle. This is definitely going to be a good one. I'm promising myself to finish this one and not give up. It's a great idea, I need to allow it time to grow and then do it justice by giving it an ending.
---
Clawing with my hands and using a sledgehammer, I spent 15 minutes tearing that wall down that had grown over and sealed shut leading to your room. I took out all of my self-hatred and regret and used them as tools to reduce it to rubble. And I stand here in the entrance, and your room is not there anymore. It's no longer a charred room with sour air and poor, diffused lighting from the single pane window to the right.
It's a hallway.
The whole thing is lit with tea candles hanging in glass bowls from wires, like in the Queen of Spain's castle, all warm and glowing softly above my head like stars. There are many, many rooms, but I haven't been able to visit any of them yet. Doorways leading to rooms as far down the hallway as my eyes can see. I was in awe.
The fire I lit in the fireplace in the main atrium doesn't warm the air, and the sun hasn't returned yet, but I have some light with these candles I have put everywhere.
Seeing this hallway behind the wall I have taken down, I set aside my anger and sorrow and my heart swells.
My violin fingering is markedly better tonight than the first night I practiced. I have little to no issue playing an open string next to fingered ones. Now all I need to do is get my music reading abilities to the point where I can recognize them on sight.
Konaka san wrote another anime series (Shinreigari) that I caught just as it began airing in Japan a week ago, so I am wholeheartedly digging into that. I have been waiting so long and it's finally here. He is my most favorite of screenplay writers. One episode through and it's already exactly as I would have it: dualities all over the place, with the most meaningful microscopic details you don't catch unless you're really looking, and the strangest mix of characters. All of these crazy lucid dreaming, out-of-body, psychological horror elements. Mmm. Inspiring.
My novel plot has taken a turn for the strange. I had a small fit of revelations driving from work to the house today before the funeral; a bunch of things I've been reading about have all come together. Quantum reflections and paradoxes and parallel realities, electric fields, the uncertainty principle. This is definitely going to be a good one. I'm promising myself to finish this one and not give up. It's a great idea, I need to allow it time to grow and then do it justice by giving it an ending.
---
Clawing with my hands and using a sledgehammer, I spent 15 minutes tearing that wall down that had grown over and sealed shut leading to your room. I took out all of my self-hatred and regret and used them as tools to reduce it to rubble. And I stand here in the entrance, and your room is not there anymore. It's no longer a charred room with sour air and poor, diffused lighting from the single pane window to the right.
It's a hallway.
The whole thing is lit with tea candles hanging in glass bowls from wires, like in the Queen of Spain's castle, all warm and glowing softly above my head like stars. There are many, many rooms, but I haven't been able to visit any of them yet. Doorways leading to rooms as far down the hallway as my eyes can see. I was in awe.
The fire I lit in the fireplace in the main atrium doesn't warm the air, and the sun hasn't returned yet, but I have some light with these candles I have put everywhere.
Seeing this hallway behind the wall I have taken down, I set aside my anger and sorrow and my heart swells.
10.25.2007
Funeral in screenplay format to retain the surreality of the event.
---
[ENTER]
(VANCE and ADRIENNE are walking into the church. VANCE sighs and looks up at the sky.)
VANCE: At least it's nice today.
ADRIENNE: Let's not go in. Let's go home and sleep.
VANCE: I wish we could, sis.
---
(CRYSTAL, VANCE and ADRIENNE are sitting in a pew near the middle of the gathering. There is a PASTOR at the head of the room trying to wrap the ceremony up, but has been preaching at the attendants for some time now.)
PASTOR: And I say to you all, today you can open your hearts to Christ and let him be your Lord and Savior. You can decide right now to let Christ lead your life and guide you down the path to salvation, and hold him above all else. That's what the new Ross would have wanted for you all.
(CRYSTAL leans forward slightly to look at VANCE and ADRIENNE and gives them a knowing look.)
CRYSTAL: (quietly) Go Buddha.
(VANCE laughs gently and shakes his head at the PASTOR. ADRIENNE smiles wanly and resumes studying the architecture of the church.)
---
(CRYSTAL, VANCE, and ADRIENNE are exiting the small church. ADRIENNE looks upward toward the huge off-white clouds in the vivid blue sky.)
MEGAN: Aren't they tall? Vance is so big now!
JUANITA: You both have grown up so much!
(ADRIENNE glances at them, smiles politely and resumes looking upward. BETH approaches and pulls VANCE into a tight hug. She's crying.)
BETH: Oh, Vance.
VANCE: Hi Beth.
BETH: It's so good to see you again. And... Adrienne?
(ADRIENNE looks back to the people around her and sees BETH. BETH hugs ADRIENNE tightly.)
BETH: (stifling a sob) You look so good.
(BETH smiles and hugs her again. ADRIENNE smiles, not knowing what to say.)
BETH: I missed you. You look beautiful.
ADRIENNE: Thank you.
(They share a look for a few moments, then BETH squeezes her shoulder.)
BETH: I better rejoin the black sheep.
(ADRIENNE sighs.)
---
(ADRIENNE, VANCE, and CRYSTAL are standing in a small group at the reception. GARY approaches.)
GARY: Hi, how are you doing?
VANCE: Fine.
(ADRIENNE watches him closely. GARY goes to put his right arm around ADRIENNE. ADRIENNE steps away.)
ADRIENNE: Don't do that.
GARY: (somewhat incredulously) Oh ok. How are you?
ADRIENNE: Fine.
(VANCE gives CRYSTAL a scared look. CRYSTAL raises her eyebrows.)
GARY: You look wonderful.
ADRIENNE: You're ridiculous.
GARY: (laughs a little, surprise) Yeah, I know. How have you been?
ADRIENNE: Fine.
GARY: That's good.
(ADRIENNE looks at CRYSTAL, then at VANCE, then slightly narrows her eyes at GARY.)
CRYSTAL: I don't think she wants to talk.
GARY: Yeah. Ok.
(GARY walks away.)
ADRIENNE: Why does he have to do that.
CRYSTAL: This is not the right place or time.
(VANCE mumbles something they can't hear and heads toward the food laid out behind them.)
---
{LINDSAY bumps into ADRIENNE and CRYSTAL again. They hug.)
ADRIENNE: I missed you.
LINDSAY: I missed you too. We should have another funeral soon, then we can see each other again.
(ADRIENNE laughs softly.)
ADRIENNE: Yeah.
LINDSAY: Any nominations?
ADRIENNE: My dad?
(They smile.)
---
(MEGAN and BREEZE shoot critical comments about TANYA back and forth while ADRIENNE listens vaguely.)
BREEZE: She has not aged well.
MEGAN: Crystal looks younger and they're 8 years apart.
BREEZE: Yeah.
(ADRIENNE tugs at her slipping thigh-highs and realizes that she's lost so much weight the bands on the tops don't hug her thighs tight enough to stay.)
MEGAN: She has gained so much weight.
BREEZE: Her pictures from the wedding look totally different. She looks so witchy.
MEGAN: Yeah. Did you see her shoes? Definitely witchy.
(ADRIENNE looks at them talking and sighs. Thinks to herself: this is so unnecessary.)
---
(ADRIENNE and CRYSTAL are standing together listening to the informal speeches at the mic. ADRIENNE presses her fingertips against her forehead.)
ADRIENNE: I have a headache.
CRYSTAL: I should get going soon. Do you have the rest of the day off?
ADRIENNE: Yeah.
CRYSTAL: Well you can go home and destress at least.
ADRIENNE: I hope so.
(CRYSTAL and ADRIENNE say their goodbyes to LINDSAY and MEGAN. CRYSTAL walks ADRIENNE to her car.)
CRYSTAL: Call me later about Sunday, ok?
ADRIENNE: Yeah. I will.
CRYSTAL: We can go somewhere like Joann's and flip through patterns.
ADRIENNE: Yeah. See you later.
[EXEUNT]
---
[ENTER]
(VANCE and ADRIENNE are walking into the church. VANCE sighs and looks up at the sky.)
VANCE: At least it's nice today.
ADRIENNE: Let's not go in. Let's go home and sleep.
VANCE: I wish we could, sis.
---
(CRYSTAL, VANCE and ADRIENNE are sitting in a pew near the middle of the gathering. There is a PASTOR at the head of the room trying to wrap the ceremony up, but has been preaching at the attendants for some time now.)
PASTOR: And I say to you all, today you can open your hearts to Christ and let him be your Lord and Savior. You can decide right now to let Christ lead your life and guide you down the path to salvation, and hold him above all else. That's what the new Ross would have wanted for you all.
(CRYSTAL leans forward slightly to look at VANCE and ADRIENNE and gives them a knowing look.)
CRYSTAL: (quietly) Go Buddha.
(VANCE laughs gently and shakes his head at the PASTOR. ADRIENNE smiles wanly and resumes studying the architecture of the church.)
---
(CRYSTAL, VANCE, and ADRIENNE are exiting the small church. ADRIENNE looks upward toward the huge off-white clouds in the vivid blue sky.)
MEGAN: Aren't they tall? Vance is so big now!
JUANITA: You both have grown up so much!
(ADRIENNE glances at them, smiles politely and resumes looking upward. BETH approaches and pulls VANCE into a tight hug. She's crying.)
BETH: Oh, Vance.
VANCE: Hi Beth.
BETH: It's so good to see you again. And... Adrienne?
(ADRIENNE looks back to the people around her and sees BETH. BETH hugs ADRIENNE tightly.)
BETH: (stifling a sob) You look so good.
(BETH smiles and hugs her again. ADRIENNE smiles, not knowing what to say.)
BETH: I missed you. You look beautiful.
ADRIENNE: Thank you.
(They share a look for a few moments, then BETH squeezes her shoulder.)
BETH: I better rejoin the black sheep.
(ADRIENNE sighs.)
---
(ADRIENNE, VANCE, and CRYSTAL are standing in a small group at the reception. GARY approaches.)
GARY: Hi, how are you doing?
VANCE: Fine.
(ADRIENNE watches him closely. GARY goes to put his right arm around ADRIENNE. ADRIENNE steps away.)
ADRIENNE: Don't do that.
GARY: (somewhat incredulously) Oh ok. How are you?
ADRIENNE: Fine.
(VANCE gives CRYSTAL a scared look. CRYSTAL raises her eyebrows.)
GARY: You look wonderful.
ADRIENNE: You're ridiculous.
GARY: (laughs a little, surprise) Yeah, I know. How have you been?
ADRIENNE: Fine.
GARY: That's good.
(ADRIENNE looks at CRYSTAL, then at VANCE, then slightly narrows her eyes at GARY.)
CRYSTAL: I don't think she wants to talk.
GARY: Yeah. Ok.
(GARY walks away.)
ADRIENNE: Why does he have to do that.
CRYSTAL: This is not the right place or time.
(VANCE mumbles something they can't hear and heads toward the food laid out behind them.)
---
{LINDSAY bumps into ADRIENNE and CRYSTAL again. They hug.)
ADRIENNE: I missed you.
LINDSAY: I missed you too. We should have another funeral soon, then we can see each other again.
(ADRIENNE laughs softly.)
ADRIENNE: Yeah.
LINDSAY: Any nominations?
ADRIENNE: My dad?
(They smile.)
---
(MEGAN and BREEZE shoot critical comments about TANYA back and forth while ADRIENNE listens vaguely.)
BREEZE: She has not aged well.
MEGAN: Crystal looks younger and they're 8 years apart.
BREEZE: Yeah.
(ADRIENNE tugs at her slipping thigh-highs and realizes that she's lost so much weight the bands on the tops don't hug her thighs tight enough to stay.)
MEGAN: She has gained so much weight.
BREEZE: Her pictures from the wedding look totally different. She looks so witchy.
MEGAN: Yeah. Did you see her shoes? Definitely witchy.
(ADRIENNE looks at them talking and sighs. Thinks to herself: this is so unnecessary.)
---
(ADRIENNE and CRYSTAL are standing together listening to the informal speeches at the mic. ADRIENNE presses her fingertips against her forehead.)
ADRIENNE: I have a headache.
CRYSTAL: I should get going soon. Do you have the rest of the day off?
ADRIENNE: Yeah.
CRYSTAL: Well you can go home and destress at least.
ADRIENNE: I hope so.
(CRYSTAL and ADRIENNE say their goodbyes to LINDSAY and MEGAN. CRYSTAL walks ADRIENNE to her car.)
CRYSTAL: Call me later about Sunday, ok?
ADRIENNE: Yeah. I will.
CRYSTAL: We can go somewhere like Joann's and flip through patterns.
ADRIENNE: Yeah. See you later.
[EXEUNT]
10.22.2007
I don't even know, so don't ask. I wrote this while I was waiting patiently to go in to see Maggie for the first time.
"Courage, man! These events are but the stepping stones to great things, things which launch mere mortals into the annals of history. Taking the first step is hard, but everything from that point on has the momentum of seizing the initiative at its back. Let this be the acquisition of wind to fill your silent sails, the means of becoming the person you want to be. The first hill must be breached to climb the mountain, and so you too must slog through the mires of skilllessness in order to gain height. Steady your hands, steel your resolve, open your mind and take it all in. You have a long journey ahead."
"Courage, man! These events are but the stepping stones to great things, things which launch mere mortals into the annals of history. Taking the first step is hard, but everything from that point on has the momentum of seizing the initiative at its back. Let this be the acquisition of wind to fill your silent sails, the means of becoming the person you want to be. The first hill must be breached to climb the mountain, and so you too must slog through the mires of skilllessness in order to gain height. Steady your hands, steel your resolve, open your mind and take it all in. You have a long journey ahead."
Oh. My. God. The violin is beautiful and I am already enchanted. My first lesson went really well, she (Maggie) said I was progressing very quickly and showed me pizzicato and bowing and how to take care of everything. (My arm and fingers hurt though. In a good way. o_o) She's great and the violin is great and what a wonderful little respite from feeling so awful. Highlight of my week, and it's all downhill from here, but I can still practice alone in my room.
I really wish he was there to do it with me. Like we'd agreed on. I almost walked away at the last second, but he snubbed my invitation, so I guess there's nothing else to be done. I'll just have to play beautifully enough to convince him. [See post-script.]
---
"I've wanted to talk to you too. I feel awful about the way I treated you but I could see how much you wanted me to feel better and I couldn't let you do that to yourself. It wasn't good for you and I can't love you like I should be able to. Listen Adrienne, I didn't give up on you. Not by a long shot. It was different than that, at least that's how it went in my head. I'm sure if you told Josiah all that he may very well come around in enough time. What I mean is that, the labors of love are to be endured and that proof of love is always self sacrifice. That's what we tell ourselves. So if Josiah truly loves you and you truly love him, it'll work out. If you get back together be more patient with him than you know how to be, I have trust issues and he may too. It's so corny but I still buy into all this stuff. I'll talk to you anytime you want to okay pretty girl?"
---
The look on Matt's face was priceless. I can't remember the last time I was the reason someone fell so flat so quickly. I couldn't have been more cold about it either.
Just wish I'd done it sooner.
I have irreparably changed. I have done a lot of things that are now part of me because I have done them, they have become my past. My wounded, crippled past. I must grow out of it. Rise above. Come clean, admit everything, and show that those things I used to do are not me, cannot be me, only a shadow of confusion and doubt and depression.
A person isn't the sum of their actions, but their actions have a strong, ultimately overpowering definition of who we are, even to ourselves. I can talk and talk and talk about how I am going to return my life to match how I truly am, but until I've done so, it doesn't make me a person who lives honestly. Repeated results over a span of time is proof in human form of the validity of the claims. These recent steps I have been making are promising.
The way other people are, the way they act, take everything for granted like I used to, forgetting all sorts of things they proclaimed important, never listening and always talking about NOTHING. Disgusting. I can't work without earbuds anymore. I can't BELIEVE I let myself get like that and tried to use all of this intellect to reason that it was OK. Fucking disgusting. I compromised so much of myself. I wish I could have told myself It's ok, Adrienne, to feel how you are and get disgusted. It's ok to hate them. It's ok to think that they're doing everything wrong. This is YOU, and you already know this, so express it. Don't hide it. Stop lying and skirting the issue, put it right in their face and make them deal with it. Ugh.
My heart hurts constantly, and I can't eat and it's hard to keep from breaking down, but I have strength. I have endurance. One day at a time, I can shoulder the weights of my infinite mistakes and learn to carry them, to climb back onto the pedestal I used to ride upon and crawl back into my own skin. My true form.
For all his coldness and all his repression, I know I am paying for what I've done and I know that I love him with a sickness and a depth I can't express here on this cold screen. The simple thought of his face or his hands is enough to go a day without seeing him. A lone, detached sentence every day is enough to feed on. I lived like this for years, I was even without him for a number of months. I am completely capable of doing so in this capacity.
Even if he is dead inside, or numb, or furious, or full of wrath, or any of the other things he has been before and could easily be now, I can still love him as fiercely as I always did. Even if he's gone. Even if he leaves and I never see him again, I would be cut so deeply I wouldn't recover, but I can still love him. And having a capacity to do so, instead of run as I had been doing, is all I ever wanted from myself.
The courage to love someone so volatile and ridiculously complex. I feel as if I am back at 15, implanted in front of my computer, swearing my love with every word I type. These flames have not stoked me so since then; their heat is a comforting sign in such tumultuous times.
And a moment lurking in my consciousness still, of drunk love in his studio apartment, laying in bed singing to him with all of my heart and mind laid out. And we wrapped around each other and bathed in it. I have oceans of love enough to do that every day for the rest of my life.
Post-script: He's going to join me in violin lessons. Steady, Adrienne. Stay on your feet. This is no time to be falling down. Never again.
---
"I've wanted to talk to you too. I feel awful about the way I treated you but I could see how much you wanted me to feel better and I couldn't let you do that to yourself. It wasn't good for you and I can't love you like I should be able to. Listen Adrienne, I didn't give up on you. Not by a long shot. It was different than that, at least that's how it went in my head. I'm sure if you told Josiah all that he may very well come around in enough time. What I mean is that, the labors of love are to be endured and that proof of love is always self sacrifice. That's what we tell ourselves. So if Josiah truly loves you and you truly love him, it'll work out. If you get back together be more patient with him than you know how to be, I have trust issues and he may too. It's so corny but I still buy into all this stuff. I'll talk to you anytime you want to okay pretty girl?"
---
The look on Matt's face was priceless. I can't remember the last time I was the reason someone fell so flat so quickly. I couldn't have been more cold about it either.
Just wish I'd done it sooner.
I have irreparably changed. I have done a lot of things that are now part of me because I have done them, they have become my past. My wounded, crippled past. I must grow out of it. Rise above. Come clean, admit everything, and show that those things I used to do are not me, cannot be me, only a shadow of confusion and doubt and depression.
A person isn't the sum of their actions, but their actions have a strong, ultimately overpowering definition of who we are, even to ourselves. I can talk and talk and talk about how I am going to return my life to match how I truly am, but until I've done so, it doesn't make me a person who lives honestly. Repeated results over a span of time is proof in human form of the validity of the claims. These recent steps I have been making are promising.
The way other people are, the way they act, take everything for granted like I used to, forgetting all sorts of things they proclaimed important, never listening and always talking about NOTHING. Disgusting. I can't work without earbuds anymore. I can't BELIEVE I let myself get like that and tried to use all of this intellect to reason that it was OK. Fucking disgusting. I compromised so much of myself. I wish I could have told myself It's ok, Adrienne, to feel how you are and get disgusted. It's ok to hate them. It's ok to think that they're doing everything wrong. This is YOU, and you already know this, so express it. Don't hide it. Stop lying and skirting the issue, put it right in their face and make them deal with it. Ugh.
My heart hurts constantly, and I can't eat and it's hard to keep from breaking down, but I have strength. I have endurance. One day at a time, I can shoulder the weights of my infinite mistakes and learn to carry them, to climb back onto the pedestal I used to ride upon and crawl back into my own skin. My true form.
For all his coldness and all his repression, I know I am paying for what I've done and I know that I love him with a sickness and a depth I can't express here on this cold screen. The simple thought of his face or his hands is enough to go a day without seeing him. A lone, detached sentence every day is enough to feed on. I lived like this for years, I was even without him for a number of months. I am completely capable of doing so in this capacity.
Even if he is dead inside, or numb, or furious, or full of wrath, or any of the other things he has been before and could easily be now, I can still love him as fiercely as I always did. Even if he's gone. Even if he leaves and I never see him again, I would be cut so deeply I wouldn't recover, but I can still love him. And having a capacity to do so, instead of run as I had been doing, is all I ever wanted from myself.
The courage to love someone so volatile and ridiculously complex. I feel as if I am back at 15, implanted in front of my computer, swearing my love with every word I type. These flames have not stoked me so since then; their heat is a comforting sign in such tumultuous times.
And a moment lurking in my consciousness still, of drunk love in his studio apartment, laying in bed singing to him with all of my heart and mind laid out. And we wrapped around each other and bathed in it. I have oceans of love enough to do that every day for the rest of my life.
Post-script: He's going to join me in violin lessons. Steady, Adrienne. Stay on your feet. This is no time to be falling down. Never again.
10.21.2007
I really like my handwriting. Forming the sharp points and pin-straight lines with the pressure and angle of my fingers feels good.
The list as it stands right now:
Danielle
Matt
Myles
Bacon
The sun never comes out. Crawling into the cold shadows, my face pressed up against the spot where the entrance to his room was. Trying to find a seam in the marble, and in finding none, dig into it with my fingernails and begin the process of clawing myself a new doorway.
---
"I can't sleep, and I've been meaning to say this, so I want to lay it all out right now while I still think it's a good idea to say something.
In a gigantic fit of self-hatred and horrifying realizations, I came to see recently that breaking up with Josiah was just about the worst thing I've ever done in my life. I hurt him more than words can say, and in ways I have just now come to understand. I know that I love him more than I will ever love anyone else, in a way that I couldn't stop no matter how hard I tried. I have told him as much, and he is treating me as I did him. I deserve it all and more; I only wish that hurting the ways he did would rectify what I've done.
The only reason you enter my head anymore is because of how frustrating it was that you lied about what you were going to do when you were still around: to try something with me and see where it went. Well, little was tried and before anything really happened you tapped yourself out. Oh well. I had been trying way too hard to help you in ways I couldn't and I get that now. That's fine. As far as I am concerned, any chapter of you and I that ever existed has been closed for a while now.
Hopefully I am just saying this for the record and you get where I'm coming from. I hate misunderstandings; I've created so many of them and I have so many more to correct before I'll feel at peace again."
---
My uncle Ross died at some point in the last few days before Saturday night. The details my brother relayed were scattered, but Ross called into work sick, didn't come in the next day, and when they went to check on him at his apartment, they found him dead. The funeral is on Thursday. Neither Vance nor I knew how to react, so we just sat on the phone for a few minutes exchanging "holy shit"s.
Lindsay must be distraught.
The list as it stands right now:
Bacon
The sun never comes out. Crawling into the cold shadows, my face pressed up against the spot where the entrance to his room was. Trying to find a seam in the marble, and in finding none, dig into it with my fingernails and begin the process of clawing myself a new doorway.
---
"I can't sleep, and I've been meaning to say this, so I want to lay it all out right now while I still think it's a good idea to say something.
In a gigantic fit of self-hatred and horrifying realizations, I came to see recently that breaking up with Josiah was just about the worst thing I've ever done in my life. I hurt him more than words can say, and in ways I have just now come to understand. I know that I love him more than I will ever love anyone else, in a way that I couldn't stop no matter how hard I tried. I have told him as much, and he is treating me as I did him. I deserve it all and more; I only wish that hurting the ways he did would rectify what I've done.
The only reason you enter my head anymore is because of how frustrating it was that you lied about what you were going to do when you were still around: to try something with me and see where it went. Well, little was tried and before anything really happened you tapped yourself out. Oh well. I had been trying way too hard to help you in ways I couldn't and I get that now. That's fine. As far as I am concerned, any chapter of you and I that ever existed has been closed for a while now.
Hopefully I am just saying this for the record and you get where I'm coming from. I hate misunderstandings; I've created so many of them and I have so many more to correct before I'll feel at peace again."
---
My uncle Ross died at some point in the last few days before Saturday night. The details my brother relayed were scattered, but Ross called into work sick, didn't come in the next day, and when they went to check on him at his apartment, they found him dead. The funeral is on Thursday. Neither Vance nor I knew how to react, so we just sat on the phone for a few minutes exchanging "holy shit"s.
Lindsay must be distraught.
Going back to what I said some time ago about listening to two conversations at once:
"Performance on the unattended message is, of course, much worse. Participants are generally able to report almost nothing about the content of the unattended message. In fact, a change from English to German in the unattended channel usually goes unnoticed. However, participants are able to report that the unattended message is speech rather than non-verbal content." [Dichotic Listening]
"Cherry (1953) conducted perception experiments in which subjects were asked to listen to two different messages from a single loudspeaker at the same time and try to separate them. His work reveals that our ability to separate sounds from background noise is based on the characteristics of the sounds, such as the gender of the speaker, the direction from which the sound is coming, the pitch, or the speaking speed." [Cocktail Party Effect]
So, differentiation between two conversations (and by extension the ability to comprehend both) relies at least in part upon the gender, direction, pitch, and speaking speed. This makes sense; I was finding it somewhat difficult having two male speakers at 20 degrees to my left and 100 degrees to my right with similar pitch and speed.
What's amusing me, though, is that I can distinctly remember trying this out for a number of minutes, what I was doing at the time, who was there, and roughly what time it was, yet I can't remember what the speaker to my left was talking about. :\ (The speaker to my right was explaining to someone his pious Mormon ethics on human sexuality.) But I think I can attribute this to the fact that the Mormon was more attractive, what he was saying was a little controversial/surprising to hear, and that his voice had more bass in it.
"Performance on the unattended message is, of course, much worse. Participants are generally able to report almost nothing about the content of the unattended message. In fact, a change from English to German in the unattended channel usually goes unnoticed. However, participants are able to report that the unattended message is speech rather than non-verbal content." [Dichotic Listening]
"Cherry (1953) conducted perception experiments in which subjects were asked to listen to two different messages from a single loudspeaker at the same time and try to separate them. His work reveals that our ability to separate sounds from background noise is based on the characteristics of the sounds, such as the gender of the speaker, the direction from which the sound is coming, the pitch, or the speaking speed." [Cocktail Party Effect]
So, differentiation between two conversations (and by extension the ability to comprehend both) relies at least in part upon the gender, direction, pitch, and speaking speed. This makes sense; I was finding it somewhat difficult having two male speakers at 20 degrees to my left and 100 degrees to my right with similar pitch and speed.
What's amusing me, though, is that I can distinctly remember trying this out for a number of minutes, what I was doing at the time, who was there, and roughly what time it was, yet I can't remember what the speaker to my left was talking about. :\ (The speaker to my right was explaining to someone his pious Mormon ethics on human sexuality.) But I think I can attribute this to the fact that the Mormon was more attractive, what he was saying was a little controversial/surprising to hear, and that his voice had more bass in it.
10.20.2007
Sawa: What... What did I do...
Fuuma: You couldn't possibly understand why I'm laughing so hard.
Sawa: Why is it so cold?
Fuuma: You left it here. You left us here to rot in your abandoned brokedown palace. Most of them are probably gone for good. It's just you and me and the emptiness now.
Sawa: And the room upstairs?
Fuuma: What, Hide's? Oh, he's broken out. I really hope you've learned from all of this.
Sawa: Why are you even still here?
Fuuma: I've always been here. You can't get rid of me. The rest are just... figments of the past. From a time and place where you were green in the world.
Sawa: Why am I even alive.
Fuuma: Oh, my dear, my little broken thing, you are so much fun to torture! Look, see now you even do it yourself. Going to his room. How stupid of you. Look how you cry and write and stare off into space. Pathetic.
Sawa: Why can't I even seen the entrance to his room.
Fuuma: This place took in your changes and made them more substantial. You scorched the insides and nailed the doors shut with your own hands. The walls are sealed now. I wonder if there's even a room still there to be found behind all that stone.
Sawa: My hands...
Fuuma: Yes, yours. Your own doing. All you. Now, perhaps, you can see why I can't stop laughing.
Fuuma: You couldn't possibly understand why I'm laughing so hard.
Sawa: Why is it so cold?
Fuuma: You left it here. You left us here to rot in your abandoned brokedown palace. Most of them are probably gone for good. It's just you and me and the emptiness now.
Sawa: And the room upstairs?
Fuuma: What, Hide's? Oh, he's broken out. I really hope you've learned from all of this.
Sawa: Why are you even still here?
Fuuma: I've always been here. You can't get rid of me. The rest are just... figments of the past. From a time and place where you were green in the world.
Sawa: Why am I even alive.
Fuuma: Oh, my dear, my little broken thing, you are so much fun to torture! Look, see now you even do it yourself. Going to his room. How stupid of you. Look how you cry and write and stare off into space. Pathetic.
Sawa: Why can't I even seen the entrance to his room.
Fuuma: This place took in your changes and made them more substantial. You scorched the insides and nailed the doors shut with your own hands. The walls are sealed now. I wonder if there's even a room still there to be found behind all that stone.
Sawa: My hands...
Fuuma: Yes, yours. Your own doing. All you. Now, perhaps, you can see why I can't stop laughing.
10.19.2007
I made the story in this post today, and drank tea, and went on a short adventure in the rain with Dan and Conrad, where I freely jumped in puddles as the mood took me. Rain in my hair and clothes, puddle-soaked jeans. Cold and wet. A better Friday than I was expecting.
It wasn't necessary for me to put him through any of that. It wasn't necessarily good for him either, since he said he had resolved to make an effort on his own part just as I decided it was best to throw it away.
I wish I could take it all back. The evil here far outweighs the good.
---
A Pound of Flesh
"What are you doing."
My eyelids snapped open.
Silence. No one's there.
It is freezing, but my hands burn, and I look down at them closely and they are bruised and cut, dried blood coating the palms. I had pulled another one out with my bare hands this time. Fingers clenched shut.
It's after sunset or before sunrise, and the scattered LEDs glow, little stars in the night sky of the building I'm in. I am trying to think back to how I got here and where I am, but I already know that I am not where I was when I went to sleep last night.
The moon peers down into the room, and the floor is marble and the ceiling has a hole in it and I realize I am in a place I haven't been to in years.
I stand up and wrap my arms around myself. The hot heat of the sun's light cools on the moon and has chilled this place. I can clearly see my breath. The outlines of the cavernous walls are just barely visible now. The main atrium -- where I find myself presently -- looms empty. What has happened to this place?
"This is pitiful."
He's behind me.
"You loved this place. It was your haven, your sanctuary."
"I know."
"What happened?"
I glance to my left, to the thick shadows under the balcony.
"I ran."
"Yes. You ran. From everything."
"But I came back. I want it back. I want to fix everything."
"Oh? Why is that? Why now?"
"Because..."
Because I love him.
"I see. I think you know what to do."
Of course I do. I kneel and pick up the chisel and hammer. He gestures vaguely.
"Here are the tools. Now get to work."
I set the cold tip of the chisel against my side, steady the hammer in my hand, and bring it down swiftly.
Sparks of pain. I grind my teeth into each other, bring the hammer down again. Steaming blood and bits of skin splat on the marble and I can feel the warmth of it near my feet somewhere.
"What did you think it would be like when you told him all of these things?"
"I knew... I knew it would be my own personal hell. It doesn't matter. I would do anything."
Reposition and repeat. A hunk out of my waist now, on the floor.
"We'll see about that."
The clang of the hammer against the blunt end of the chisel makes my head vibrate as I strike the edge of my hip bone. Tendrils of heat bloom from my side.
"What do you think you're going to accomplish? He's done with you. You're not what he wants."
"He doesn't know what I am."
Soft laughter from his mouth, echoing in the atrium. I move the chisel, press it to my thigh and hammer it in.
"He might think he does, that I'm simple to figure out..." The wedge is separating a piece of flesh from me, so I hammer again, and it detaches and falls away. "...But I know better."
"You're ridiculous."
"The more I hurt, the clearer I think."
Blood drips down my leg. The chisel is stuck. He rolls his eyes.
"Christ, you can't even do this right."
I pry the chisel from the muscle, press it to my chest dead-center, and punch a hole in my sternum with the hammer. It makes a wet cracking sound; he watches on, mildly horrified. I drive the chisel in at another angle. Crunch. A piece of one of my ribs splinters apart and skitters across the floor. I am shivering uncontrollably. He looks away. I keep working, talking as I go.
"Do you think this is enough? He wants quid pro quo, right?"
"That's what he wants, but I don't think he meant... this..."
"Then what else?" I look up at him. No response. "I would give him anything."
"Maybe he doesn't want anything. Maybe he wants something specific."
"What is it?"
"He'll tell you. Someday. Maybe."
"Maybe," I repeat, and pause in chiseling to examine my progress.
Torn bits and pieces of me are scattered around, mostly muscle, but some inevitable bone and sinew as well. I have a wide fissure in my ribcage, and looking down I can see the sickly beat of my feverish heart pushing out against what's left of my chest cavity.
I've lost so much blood at this point that I have to fight to stay standing. It's pooling at my feet.
"I hate myself." The words pour out of my mouth slow like syrup. He sighs.
I try to aim the gore-caked point of the chisel at my throbbing heart, but my limbs are quivering and it's hard to keep my eyes focused.
"Maybe he could love you, if you show him that you're back now, and recant all of the things you told him."
"But he said--" I cut myself off, trying to concentrate. I hold the chisel in position now. "I don't know anything he doesn't want me to." My tongue tries to roll the words off before they escape me. "And I don't know what to believe..."
My voice leaves me. I grip the hammer as tight as I can, swing it at the chisel with all of the strength I have left, and choke back a whimper as it cuts through both ventricles and cleaves it in two.
The pounding stops. Quiet falls over us finally. I am on the wet, clotting floor. The stars swoon above my head. He is standing near me. Whispering softly.
"This is far from being over."
It wasn't necessary for me to put him through any of that. It wasn't necessarily good for him either, since he said he had resolved to make an effort on his own part just as I decided it was best to throw it away.
I wish I could take it all back. The evil here far outweighs the good.
---
A Pound of Flesh
"What are you doing."
My eyelids snapped open.
Silence. No one's there.
It is freezing, but my hands burn, and I look down at them closely and they are bruised and cut, dried blood coating the palms. I had pulled another one out with my bare hands this time. Fingers clenched shut.
It's after sunset or before sunrise, and the scattered LEDs glow, little stars in the night sky of the building I'm in. I am trying to think back to how I got here and where I am, but I already know that I am not where I was when I went to sleep last night.
The moon peers down into the room, and the floor is marble and the ceiling has a hole in it and I realize I am in a place I haven't been to in years.
I stand up and wrap my arms around myself. The hot heat of the sun's light cools on the moon and has chilled this place. I can clearly see my breath. The outlines of the cavernous walls are just barely visible now. The main atrium -- where I find myself presently -- looms empty. What has happened to this place?
"This is pitiful."
He's behind me.
"You loved this place. It was your haven, your sanctuary."
"I know."
"What happened?"
I glance to my left, to the thick shadows under the balcony.
"I ran."
"Yes. You ran. From everything."
"But I came back. I want it back. I want to fix everything."
"Oh? Why is that? Why now?"
"Because..."
Because I love him.
"I see. I think you know what to do."
Of course I do. I kneel and pick up the chisel and hammer. He gestures vaguely.
"Here are the tools. Now get to work."
I set the cold tip of the chisel against my side, steady the hammer in my hand, and bring it down swiftly.
Sparks of pain. I grind my teeth into each other, bring the hammer down again. Steaming blood and bits of skin splat on the marble and I can feel the warmth of it near my feet somewhere.
"What did you think it would be like when you told him all of these things?"
"I knew... I knew it would be my own personal hell. It doesn't matter. I would do anything."
Reposition and repeat. A hunk out of my waist now, on the floor.
"We'll see about that."
The clang of the hammer against the blunt end of the chisel makes my head vibrate as I strike the edge of my hip bone. Tendrils of heat bloom from my side.
"What do you think you're going to accomplish? He's done with you. You're not what he wants."
"He doesn't know what I am."
Soft laughter from his mouth, echoing in the atrium. I move the chisel, press it to my thigh and hammer it in.
"He might think he does, that I'm simple to figure out..." The wedge is separating a piece of flesh from me, so I hammer again, and it detaches and falls away. "...But I know better."
"You're ridiculous."
"The more I hurt, the clearer I think."
Blood drips down my leg. The chisel is stuck. He rolls his eyes.
"Christ, you can't even do this right."
I pry the chisel from the muscle, press it to my chest dead-center, and punch a hole in my sternum with the hammer. It makes a wet cracking sound; he watches on, mildly horrified. I drive the chisel in at another angle. Crunch. A piece of one of my ribs splinters apart and skitters across the floor. I am shivering uncontrollably. He looks away. I keep working, talking as I go.
"Do you think this is enough? He wants quid pro quo, right?"
"That's what he wants, but I don't think he meant... this..."
"Then what else?" I look up at him. No response. "I would give him anything."
"Maybe he doesn't want anything. Maybe he wants something specific."
"What is it?"
"He'll tell you. Someday. Maybe."
"Maybe," I repeat, and pause in chiseling to examine my progress.
Torn bits and pieces of me are scattered around, mostly muscle, but some inevitable bone and sinew as well. I have a wide fissure in my ribcage, and looking down I can see the sickly beat of my feverish heart pushing out against what's left of my chest cavity.
I've lost so much blood at this point that I have to fight to stay standing. It's pooling at my feet.
"I hate myself." The words pour out of my mouth slow like syrup. He sighs.
I try to aim the gore-caked point of the chisel at my throbbing heart, but my limbs are quivering and it's hard to keep my eyes focused.
"Maybe he could love you, if you show him that you're back now, and recant all of the things you told him."
"But he said--" I cut myself off, trying to concentrate. I hold the chisel in position now. "I don't know anything he doesn't want me to." My tongue tries to roll the words off before they escape me. "And I don't know what to believe..."
My voice leaves me. I grip the hammer as tight as I can, swing it at the chisel with all of the strength I have left, and choke back a whimper as it cuts through both ventricles and cleaves it in two.
The pounding stops. Quiet falls over us finally. I am on the wet, clotting floor. The stars swoon above my head. He is standing near me. Whispering softly.
"This is far from being over."
10.18.2007
Dug around in the directories of one of his websites, looking at every picture, reading every document. I stumbled across a picture he made (our names put together -- Taisawa -- and our sprites from RO) and I burst into tears.
So I left the house, sat in front of a bay window with a view of Seattle and a cup of hazelnut latte for two hours, and when I came back, I brought this with me.
Monster
"Let me guess. You're sorry?"
"That's part of it, but... I have to tell you what I found out."
"What could you possibly have to say to me that would make a difference."
"I'm still me. I haven't gone anywhere, I was just so stupid. I fucked up."
"You're telling me."
"I can't believe I let myself get this far, but I wanted to apologize and tell you I love you."
"So?"
"Well... I never changed. I mean, I was deluding myself, not changing, just making a series of very, very stupid mistakes and let myself push you away."
"This is all nothing new, and perhaps even coming from good intentions, but you're wrong."
Wrong? But I'd spent months thinking all of this over. How could the result of so much soul-searching have been wrong? I needed to explain myself in more detail.
"I don't think you get what I'm saying."
"Then please, explain yourself."
"I was weak then, and we weren't doing so great. I know that I got lazy, and started loosening the tight control I had over myself, you must've seen that."
"Obviously. Continue."
"Well... I'm stupid for having done so. I never meant to get like I was, I was lost and confused about a lot of things and--"
"And utterly unwilling to listen."
He was right about that. For a long time, I was completely dead to anything he had to say. The crying and pleading just made me bury myself even deeper under all of the fear and hate that festered in me.
"You're... right."
"Of course I'm right."
"But how have I changed?"
"Oh please. Don't tell me you can't see it."
In truth, I had no idea what he was talking about.
"See what?"
"You've turned into something I despise."
I deserved to hear that. I'd had my suspicions, but to hear it out loud was relieving.
"Despise?"
"Yes. Something I pity, even. Something I could never love. You know how much platonic relationships mean to me, I don't need to love you anymore."
"You don't?"
"No. And furthermore, I don't even need to know you well. You would never be able to grasp who I am now. You and I will never be more than friends, and perhaps not even that."
Despite the resolve I had built up to confront him like this, tears leapt from my eyes and fell down my cheeks.
"I'll go on. I don't need you anymore. Just because I use your body from time to time doesn't mean I care, or that I like you. I take what I feel like. You just give it up freely, so why should I give you anything in return, even if I wanted to? I get what I need from someone else now."
Someone... Who? The tears poured off my eyelashes and made my neck wet. I shook uncontrollably, as I always had whenever we had conversations like this.
"She's really grown up a lot. Unlike you."
Who was it?
"And she understands me completely. We don't disagree. She doesn't fight with me unnecessarily. I have someone now who gets me."
Who?
"And it's definitely not you."
WHO?
He smiled. She entered.
"Hello again."
No.
"It's been a while."
NO.
She put an arm around him.
I screamed. My throat swelled and it amplified, burning my vocal chords. It hurt, but I screamed until I had no breath left.
"I see you're taking this well."
My knees buckled. I sat on the floor in a heap, looking up at them both. Her hand on his shoulder.
"Didn't I tell you she would be like this." He laughed down at me. "She's nothing of what she used to be."
"How sad." The faintest ripple of pride in her eyes. A smirk tugged at her lips.
He knelt in front of me.
"She and I are moving to Europe. You understand that you can't follow us. If you do, I will destroy you without hesitation." My limbs were frozen. He looked me right in the eye. "You left. This is your creation. And now you get to live with it."
He stood and turned to her.
"I'm done here. We should go."
"Gladly."
I dry heaved. They left me there on the floor, alone.
Several minutes passed before I could begin thinking again. My mind slowly willed my body back up, and I stumbled to the bathroom sink.
Red and raw eyes gazing back at me. Lips sore and bitten. Tangled hair. Matted eyelashes. Wet and shining cheeks. I touched my face to make sure I was still real, and as I did, I noticed my nails breaking into jagged claws jutting from the tips of my fingers.
I squeezed my eyes shut and grabbed my head with my hands. They weren't real. Check again.
I opened them and saw I had pulled fistfuls of my own hair out. My fingers tore at my scalp, strands and clumps peeling off. The skin underneath was black and rotting. I grimaced.
My teeth were loosening and coming free in my mouth. The skin on my arms was drying and hardening into scales. Both irises of my eyes glowed a dull red. My nose was flattening against my face. Hollows formed under my cheekbones, my lips cracked and bled, my ears shriveled, and I threw myself to the ground shrieking.
So I left the house, sat in front of a bay window with a view of Seattle and a cup of hazelnut latte for two hours, and when I came back, I brought this with me.
Monster
"Let me guess. You're sorry?"
"That's part of it, but... I have to tell you what I found out."
"What could you possibly have to say to me that would make a difference."
"I'm still me. I haven't gone anywhere, I was just so stupid. I fucked up."
"You're telling me."
"I can't believe I let myself get this far, but I wanted to apologize and tell you I love you."
"So?"
"Well... I never changed. I mean, I was deluding myself, not changing, just making a series of very, very stupid mistakes and let myself push you away."
"This is all nothing new, and perhaps even coming from good intentions, but you're wrong."
Wrong? But I'd spent months thinking all of this over. How could the result of so much soul-searching have been wrong? I needed to explain myself in more detail.
"I don't think you get what I'm saying."
"Then please, explain yourself."
"I was weak then, and we weren't doing so great. I know that I got lazy, and started loosening the tight control I had over myself, you must've seen that."
"Obviously. Continue."
"Well... I'm stupid for having done so. I never meant to get like I was, I was lost and confused about a lot of things and--"
"And utterly unwilling to listen."
He was right about that. For a long time, I was completely dead to anything he had to say. The crying and pleading just made me bury myself even deeper under all of the fear and hate that festered in me.
"You're... right."
"Of course I'm right."
"But how have I changed?"
"Oh please. Don't tell me you can't see it."
In truth, I had no idea what he was talking about.
"See what?"
"You've turned into something I despise."
I deserved to hear that. I'd had my suspicions, but to hear it out loud was relieving.
"Despise?"
"Yes. Something I pity, even. Something I could never love. You know how much platonic relationships mean to me, I don't need to love you anymore."
"You don't?"
"No. And furthermore, I don't even need to know you well. You would never be able to grasp who I am now. You and I will never be more than friends, and perhaps not even that."
Despite the resolve I had built up to confront him like this, tears leapt from my eyes and fell down my cheeks.
"I'll go on. I don't need you anymore. Just because I use your body from time to time doesn't mean I care, or that I like you. I take what I feel like. You just give it up freely, so why should I give you anything in return, even if I wanted to? I get what I need from someone else now."
Someone... Who? The tears poured off my eyelashes and made my neck wet. I shook uncontrollably, as I always had whenever we had conversations like this.
"She's really grown up a lot. Unlike you."
Who was it?
"And she understands me completely. We don't disagree. She doesn't fight with me unnecessarily. I have someone now who gets me."
Who?
"And it's definitely not you."
WHO?
He smiled. She entered.
"Hello again."
No.
"It's been a while."
NO.
She put an arm around him.
I screamed. My throat swelled and it amplified, burning my vocal chords. It hurt, but I screamed until I had no breath left.
"I see you're taking this well."
My knees buckled. I sat on the floor in a heap, looking up at them both. Her hand on his shoulder.
"Didn't I tell you she would be like this." He laughed down at me. "She's nothing of what she used to be."
"How sad." The faintest ripple of pride in her eyes. A smirk tugged at her lips.
He knelt in front of me.
"She and I are moving to Europe. You understand that you can't follow us. If you do, I will destroy you without hesitation." My limbs were frozen. He looked me right in the eye. "You left. This is your creation. And now you get to live with it."
He stood and turned to her.
"I'm done here. We should go."
"Gladly."
I dry heaved. They left me there on the floor, alone.
Several minutes passed before I could begin thinking again. My mind slowly willed my body back up, and I stumbled to the bathroom sink.
Red and raw eyes gazing back at me. Lips sore and bitten. Tangled hair. Matted eyelashes. Wet and shining cheeks. I touched my face to make sure I was still real, and as I did, I noticed my nails breaking into jagged claws jutting from the tips of my fingers.
I squeezed my eyes shut and grabbed my head with my hands. They weren't real. Check again.
I opened them and saw I had pulled fistfuls of my own hair out. My fingers tore at my scalp, strands and clumps peeling off. The skin underneath was black and rotting. I grimaced.
My teeth were loosening and coming free in my mouth. The skin on my arms was drying and hardening into scales. Both irises of my eyes glowed a dull red. My nose was flattening against my face. Hollows formed under my cheekbones, my lips cracked and bled, my ears shriveled, and I threw myself to the ground shrieking.
He called her his muse.
It cuts me and fury pours out in place of blood. Words can't describe the rage in my veins, pumping through my livid heart, punching a pulse of seething wrath inside me.
I want to kill her.
I sit in my room and do nothing about it. And write more.
Listening to Nick Drake lately. Blustery day today, it was perfect and beautiful and I sat outside in it scratching my little words into my spiral and letting the gusts push my hair around my face. Thin sheets of bleached paper ruffling around my hand as I drag the pen's tip back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The first word
Nothing
And then the second word
has
And then the rest of them
any importance until I place importance on it. This is what separates me from others who inherit the feeling of something being important from someone else. Where they would readily accept preexisting definitions of what something is, I would question them all to my own satisfaction and then make a decision.
It is up to me to investigate the world. No one else is going to do it for me.
The more I think back and try to put myself in that place, that headspace I was in to make the decisions I did, the more I realize that I should have been able to handle the immense stress I was under. I was working 40 hours, distracted by an idiotic boy who was just smart enough to catch my attention, going to school with 15 credit hours, trying to cope with the slow disintegration of a relationship I desperately wanted to revive and had been trying to. ("It feels like we're just roommates who sleep with each other.") Perhaps it seems like a lot to some of you, but I was getting through each day until I allowed the Achilles heel I had spent some months developing be chipped away at by my own self-doubt, by that ridiculous boy made of lies, by the lack of response coming from Josiah that I was taking as disinterest instead of just fucking ASKING what was going on and pausing for a moment to figure out my thoughts and concerns. I let all of it happen; I was weakened. Unable to reassure myself. In feeling like I had failed everything, I was unable to want to stop myself from slipping down into that retarded state of mind.
I wonder now if Josiah would've been able to reach me in time... He tried. I know he tried, very hard. But I also know that I did everything but talk to him then. And was incapable of listening when he did speak.
It cuts me and fury pours out in place of blood. Words can't describe the rage in my veins, pumping through my livid heart, punching a pulse of seething wrath inside me.
I want to kill her.
I sit in my room and do nothing about it. And write more.
Listening to Nick Drake lately. Blustery day today, it was perfect and beautiful and I sat outside in it scratching my little words into my spiral and letting the gusts push my hair around my face. Thin sheets of bleached paper ruffling around my hand as I drag the pen's tip back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The first word
Nothing
And then the second word
has
And then the rest of them
any importance until I place importance on it. This is what separates me from others who inherit the feeling of something being important from someone else. Where they would readily accept preexisting definitions of what something is, I would question them all to my own satisfaction and then make a decision.
It is up to me to investigate the world. No one else is going to do it for me.
The more I think back and try to put myself in that place, that headspace I was in to make the decisions I did, the more I realize that I should have been able to handle the immense stress I was under. I was working 40 hours, distracted by an idiotic boy who was just smart enough to catch my attention, going to school with 15 credit hours, trying to cope with the slow disintegration of a relationship I desperately wanted to revive and had been trying to. ("It feels like we're just roommates who sleep with each other.") Perhaps it seems like a lot to some of you, but I was getting through each day until I allowed the Achilles heel I had spent some months developing be chipped away at by my own self-doubt, by that ridiculous boy made of lies, by the lack of response coming from Josiah that I was taking as disinterest instead of just fucking ASKING what was going on and pausing for a moment to figure out my thoughts and concerns. I let all of it happen; I was weakened. Unable to reassure myself. In feeling like I had failed everything, I was unable to want to stop myself from slipping down into that retarded state of mind.
I wonder now if Josiah would've been able to reach me in time... He tried. I know he tried, very hard. But I also know that I did everything but talk to him then. And was incapable of listening when he did speak.
10.17.2007
Vance called me.
He's in love. :3
They met 10 days ago and they're already inhaling each other's every word and are completely on the same page about how they feel. And, from what he and I talked about, we both feel other people out the same way. We just know when it's right and true, straight from the beginning, no use bullshitting ourselves. We just know.
Him: You know... even though I never spent a whole lot of time around you two, and I never really understood you and him, I could feel how it just worked. You and him just fit together right and it didn't make any sense that you broke up.
Me: Yeah...
---
Fuck sleep.
Must keep writing. Never stop.
Not that this excuses anything, but I've finally figured out why I firmly believed one could not keep a promise and told Josiah as much back in the apartment on Boren.
Back then, with my limited grasp of people's dynamics (I was only able to view reactions inside the static environment of high school trappings up until moving in with him), I was convinced that people couldn't predict changes in themselves or circumstances in which they would break said promises, or even the likelihood of those circumstances arising to interfere.
I really thought, despite everything I already knew to be true, that it was possible I would change radically (and still, I believe I have not ever changed radically, but more on this as the thoughts come to me), or be given a reason or circumstance to betray the promises I was hesitating to make. I couldn't bear the thought of breaking a promise I made because of these issues, so instead of resolving to keep myself in control, I... resolved not to make any promises. Wonderful. All I was doing then in not promising anything was telling Josiah that not only I couldn't control myself, but I didn't want to control myself, even if it meant hurting him in ways neither of us could imagine at the time. I was telling him without words that I didn't want to fight for him if the time ever arose where I would need to.
Then again, back then, I also used to do and say all sorts of things I never understood the full impact of and was adjusting to having no privacy and sharing the same space with him. Not an excuse, mind you -- that sort of behavior never had one -- but a musing on my position in life at the time.
And now?
Now I understand that promises are something that I make with the intention of stopping at nothing to see that they're kept. Promises are things to be guarded with everything one has; anything that threatens them should be obliterated. Promises are sacred things that mean more than words can say.
And now that I understand what a promise means, I see that I made one without saying so when I decided to come back. I promised myself that, in going back and rectifying all the wrongs I'd done, I would never leave again. Ever. It took me weeks to make sure this was what I really wanted and could really commit to. It is. I want us both to share this someday. I can't think of anything else I would hold so close to my heart.
---
Random memory: In the EB Games at the bottom of Pacific Place next to Barnes and Noble, I'm standing on his left and watching him sign the receipt for a game he's buying, and suddenly realizing he's left-handed.
He's in love. :3
They met 10 days ago and they're already inhaling each other's every word and are completely on the same page about how they feel. And, from what he and I talked about, we both feel other people out the same way. We just know when it's right and true, straight from the beginning, no use bullshitting ourselves. We just know.
Him: You know... even though I never spent a whole lot of time around you two, and I never really understood you and him, I could feel how it just worked. You and him just fit together right and it didn't make any sense that you broke up.
Me: Yeah...
---
Fuck sleep.
Must keep writing. Never stop.
Not that this excuses anything, but I've finally figured out why I firmly believed one could not keep a promise and told Josiah as much back in the apartment on Boren.
Back then, with my limited grasp of people's dynamics (I was only able to view reactions inside the static environment of high school trappings up until moving in with him), I was convinced that people couldn't predict changes in themselves or circumstances in which they would break said promises, or even the likelihood of those circumstances arising to interfere.
I really thought, despite everything I already knew to be true, that it was possible I would change radically (and still, I believe I have not ever changed radically, but more on this as the thoughts come to me), or be given a reason or circumstance to betray the promises I was hesitating to make. I couldn't bear the thought of breaking a promise I made because of these issues, so instead of resolving to keep myself in control, I... resolved not to make any promises. Wonderful. All I was doing then in not promising anything was telling Josiah that not only I couldn't control myself, but I didn't want to control myself, even if it meant hurting him in ways neither of us could imagine at the time. I was telling him without words that I didn't want to fight for him if the time ever arose where I would need to.
Then again, back then, I also used to do and say all sorts of things I never understood the full impact of and was adjusting to having no privacy and sharing the same space with him. Not an excuse, mind you -- that sort of behavior never had one -- but a musing on my position in life at the time.
And now?
Now I understand that promises are something that I make with the intention of stopping at nothing to see that they're kept. Promises are things to be guarded with everything one has; anything that threatens them should be obliterated. Promises are sacred things that mean more than words can say.
And now that I understand what a promise means, I see that I made one without saying so when I decided to come back. I promised myself that, in going back and rectifying all the wrongs I'd done, I would never leave again. Ever. It took me weeks to make sure this was what I really wanted and could really commit to. It is. I want us both to share this someday. I can't think of anything else I would hold so close to my heart.
---
Random memory: In the EB Games at the bottom of Pacific Place next to Barnes and Noble, I'm standing on his left and watching him sign the receipt for a game he's buying, and suddenly realizing he's left-handed.
Me: Pens. PENS. PAT, I NEED PENS. I NEED PENS.
Pat: Holy christ, let's go then.
*at Staples*
Me: Doot doot doot *grabs spiral* doot doot *grabs pens* doot doot *sets stuff down at cashier counter*
Guy: Hey ok this and this. Do you have rewards card?
Me: Nope!
Guy: They not give you one?
Me: Uh...?
Guy: Do you want one?
Me: Ah, no.
Guy: You sure? Sure? Ok.
Me: ...
Guy: Ok scan your card.
Me: *slides card*
Guy: You want bag?
Me: I--
Guy: Don't say no.
Me: N... no?
Guy: Ok haha. *gives her two bags*
Me: Uh... *looks at the Cash back? screen on the card terminal*
Guy: Don't say no.
Me: *presses no* o_o
Guy: Ok thanks byeeeeee.
Me: *skitters away*
What the fuck. XD This shit writes itself.
Pat: Holy christ, let's go then.
*at Staples*
Me: Doot doot doot *grabs spiral* doot doot *grabs pens* doot doot *sets stuff down at cashier counter*
Guy: Hey ok this and this. Do you have rewards card?
Me: Nope!
Guy: They not give you one?
Me: Uh...?
Guy: Do you want one?
Me: Ah, no.
Guy: You sure? Sure? Ok.
Me: ...
Guy: Ok scan your card.
Me: *slides card*
Guy: You want bag?
Me: I--
Guy: Don't say no.
Me: N... no?
Guy: Ok haha. *gives her two bags*
Me: Uh... *looks at the Cash back? screen on the card terminal*
Guy: Don't say no.
Me: *presses no* o_o
Guy: Ok thanks byeeeeee.
Me: *skitters away*
What the fuck. XD This shit writes itself.
Let's answer some questions. I love answering questions.
Is it even possible to separate yourself from your own writing? To render a piece of written work nothing more than pure information? Of course not. Why? Because your personal bias shows in everything you do, everything you have to say, every thought is a product of your biased existence, and every moment you exist you are exerting your own bias on everything you produce.
Define bias. Wiki does a rather fine job of it here. Read more here and here as necessary.
Take something as simple as word choice, which lends to what is known as a literary voice, or the stylization of your own individual thoughts being presented in such a way that renders them unmistakably yours. The words you choose to describe anything are biased to your prior inclinations towards longer words, or shorter words, or pinpoint-accurate words, or vague words, or maybe a word you just learned the definition of that you think of first before any other synonyms for the idea you're trying to convey. How many words? How long of an explanation? Long-winded? Vague enough to render the reader lost? Straight-forward, to the point? Simply using language renders you bound to the definitions of all of the words in that language. If one could convey an idea in any language at their disposal, and someone else were able to understand it, their words are still bound by the fact that they are open to definition as defined by the listener's prior experience, viewpoint, recent events that have affected them, et cetera, et cetera, we could spend all day coming up with these. (Josiah was right over a year ago when he said that language wasn't as accurate as I was trying to make it out to be; I rescind my claim from that conversation and put forward this one.)
Language has the precision of a polar bear trying to measure the diameter of the solar system with a spoon. It is a wonderful tool to use when attempting to convey general meaning, experiences and emotions, but when it comes to conveying the same idea in the same method to any number of people and having them all grasp what is being presented, it doesn't come anywhere near mathematics. So we're left with our imprecise tool of language, and in this case, left with nothing but English because the writer hasn't been in a position to fill in the gaping holes of her Japanese self-education, nor learn any other language well enough to say what she's saying right now. Assuming the reader is fluent in English as well, and perhaps has a dictionary on hand, we can still work with this. This is still doable.
Josiah and I were talking about the same things (his non-blog, my pseudo-blog) and going to different branches of the same general conclusion about them. He talked about judging people's actions against who you think they are, and then stating that it's reasonable to place expectations, but forgive if they're not met, and to use assumption as a basis only when they aren't present to obtain the missing information from. I talked about how the perceptions of other people are formed in our heads, how they get altered, and how all of the information can get consciously or unconsciously altered. I never went as far as to state anything based off of the information I was presenting that wasn't an explanation of my own behavior, and now that I look back on it, I wonder why I didn't. I guess because I wasn't done explaining it all and working through it until now.
Let's take Josiah's bucket analogy. He poses the question "What about the massive amount of effort to accomplish the removal of the bucket?" and says, simply, to deal with it. I'm going to posit that it's completely, utterly foolish to want to do so, and borderline absolutely impossible to get rid of the bucket entirely without having long-term memory dysfunction or full-blown long-term amnesia. Part of the process of collecting information and comparing it against all other relevant information requires the use of such a bucket; without it, it would be impossible for people to develop emotional attachments to anyone they knew. If certain past actions were completely wiped clean and let go of, being selective about what you let go wouldn't do; you'd be creating a false past that dictates equally false background information about that person. If you keep all of the subjectively favorable or unfavorable items, and reject all the rest, there is a false sense of favorability or unfavorability based on the bucket owner's personal selectivity and bias. If you keep none of it, it's up to the bucket owner to dictate when the oldest information should be tossed out, regardless of whether the information is relevant. (Relevancy would insinuate subjective favorability.) If you're missing relevant information relating to someone you know, you simply can't know them as well as a person who keeps their bucket but forgives and sets aside the transgressions, cherishes and sets aside the good moments, and puts more stock in the recent behaviors than the older ones. The bucket keeper has more information to withdraw a more complete picture of this person and lends more credibility to the persona of that person they hold in their head than anyone who decides to remove anything from their bucket. It's better, strictly in the sense of knowing the person in a more complete way, to take note of things and move on than it is to try to forget something happened.
Since I am a dataphile, I have obviously chosen to keep my bucket, clutching it even, and holding it up to catch even the smallest fragments of everyone around me. I shudder at the thought of intentionally forgetting anything, even though that may very well be what I was doing this last year. I would put forward that I hadn't forgotten, merely buried underneath layers of self-hatred, anger, frustration, et cetera, but I can't say for certain just yet...
We all make decisions at points in our lives to either follow or oppose bias in all its forms: cognitive bias, subjectivity, et cetera. Most people I have found, since I can remember being self-aware, choose to go along with it. The trappings of bias are numerous and, in some cases, inevitable. (We talked a few days ago about sensory bias.) Should an individual choose to do so, the fight against it is as long as they exist in a conscious state, and exerts a tremendous amount of strain on the individual's mind, the way they present themselves to others, the way they handle information/process events; in short, a lifetime's worth of work is cut out for the person that chooses to fight it. Is anyone capable of doing so? Surely, who am I to say what you're capable of and what you're not. I really didn't want to be myself for a year, so I went and acted like I wouldn't for a while, and was perfectly capable of being as such and then returning back to my natural state. But the question I really want to address is why choose to do so, if it entails so much struggle and work?
The desire to experience things as they truly are. If one puts forth the effort necessary to eschew bias they have control over, and strictly deal in the most straight-forward, honest, truthful ideas and facts, the end result would be reaching a more clearly defined reality in which to live. Of course we're not forgetting the fact that reality is filtered through our own senses and perception. Sure, we can mishear a word and interpret an idea that wasn't actually stated in the first place. We can misspell a word and cause a misunderstanding. But these are correctable to some extent when you recognize they've happened, if you choose to. When you've misheard someone, ask them to repeat themselves. When you've misspelled a word, supplement the correct spelling. As long as you keep your wits about you and stay on your toes, there's no reason why most people can't do this.
When I chose to forego doing so, I did the most utterly stupid thing I can possibly think of doing, and said a long string of terrible skewed things that in turn skewed people around me and made them question my lucidity. (Abrupt schisms between the person's real-time behavior/speech and those of their correlating persona in the viewer's mind don't sit well with anyone, especially if you've been dating them for six years.) I'm done with it, having snapped out of it and pried my mind wide open.
I want what I had always wanted: a keen grasp of reality as pure and uninfluenced as I can get it. I want the truth.
Is it even possible to separate yourself from your own writing? To render a piece of written work nothing more than pure information? Of course not. Why? Because your personal bias shows in everything you do, everything you have to say, every thought is a product of your biased existence, and every moment you exist you are exerting your own bias on everything you produce.
Define bias. Wiki does a rather fine job of it here. Read more here and here as necessary.
Take something as simple as word choice, which lends to what is known as a literary voice, or the stylization of your own individual thoughts being presented in such a way that renders them unmistakably yours. The words you choose to describe anything are biased to your prior inclinations towards longer words, or shorter words, or pinpoint-accurate words, or vague words, or maybe a word you just learned the definition of that you think of first before any other synonyms for the idea you're trying to convey. How many words? How long of an explanation? Long-winded? Vague enough to render the reader lost? Straight-forward, to the point? Simply using language renders you bound to the definitions of all of the words in that language. If one could convey an idea in any language at their disposal, and someone else were able to understand it, their words are still bound by the fact that they are open to definition as defined by the listener's prior experience, viewpoint, recent events that have affected them, et cetera, et cetera, we could spend all day coming up with these. (Josiah was right over a year ago when he said that language wasn't as accurate as I was trying to make it out to be; I rescind my claim from that conversation and put forward this one.)
Language has the precision of a polar bear trying to measure the diameter of the solar system with a spoon. It is a wonderful tool to use when attempting to convey general meaning, experiences and emotions, but when it comes to conveying the same idea in the same method to any number of people and having them all grasp what is being presented, it doesn't come anywhere near mathematics. So we're left with our imprecise tool of language, and in this case, left with nothing but English because the writer hasn't been in a position to fill in the gaping holes of her Japanese self-education, nor learn any other language well enough to say what she's saying right now. Assuming the reader is fluent in English as well, and perhaps has a dictionary on hand, we can still work with this. This is still doable.
Josiah and I were talking about the same things (his non-blog, my pseudo-blog) and going to different branches of the same general conclusion about them. He talked about judging people's actions against who you think they are, and then stating that it's reasonable to place expectations, but forgive if they're not met, and to use assumption as a basis only when they aren't present to obtain the missing information from. I talked about how the perceptions of other people are formed in our heads, how they get altered, and how all of the information can get consciously or unconsciously altered. I never went as far as to state anything based off of the information I was presenting that wasn't an explanation of my own behavior, and now that I look back on it, I wonder why I didn't. I guess because I wasn't done explaining it all and working through it until now.
Let's take Josiah's bucket analogy. He poses the question "What about the massive amount of effort to accomplish the removal of the bucket?" and says, simply, to deal with it. I'm going to posit that it's completely, utterly foolish to want to do so, and borderline absolutely impossible to get rid of the bucket entirely without having long-term memory dysfunction or full-blown long-term amnesia. Part of the process of collecting information and comparing it against all other relevant information requires the use of such a bucket; without it, it would be impossible for people to develop emotional attachments to anyone they knew. If certain past actions were completely wiped clean and let go of, being selective about what you let go wouldn't do; you'd be creating a false past that dictates equally false background information about that person. If you keep all of the subjectively favorable or unfavorable items, and reject all the rest, there is a false sense of favorability or unfavorability based on the bucket owner's personal selectivity and bias. If you keep none of it, it's up to the bucket owner to dictate when the oldest information should be tossed out, regardless of whether the information is relevant. (Relevancy would insinuate subjective favorability.) If you're missing relevant information relating to someone you know, you simply can't know them as well as a person who keeps their bucket but forgives and sets aside the transgressions, cherishes and sets aside the good moments, and puts more stock in the recent behaviors than the older ones. The bucket keeper has more information to withdraw a more complete picture of this person and lends more credibility to the persona of that person they hold in their head than anyone who decides to remove anything from their bucket. It's better, strictly in the sense of knowing the person in a more complete way, to take note of things and move on than it is to try to forget something happened.
Since I am a dataphile, I have obviously chosen to keep my bucket, clutching it even, and holding it up to catch even the smallest fragments of everyone around me. I shudder at the thought of intentionally forgetting anything, even though that may very well be what I was doing this last year. I would put forward that I hadn't forgotten, merely buried underneath layers of self-hatred, anger, frustration, et cetera, but I can't say for certain just yet...
We all make decisions at points in our lives to either follow or oppose bias in all its forms: cognitive bias, subjectivity, et cetera. Most people I have found, since I can remember being self-aware, choose to go along with it. The trappings of bias are numerous and, in some cases, inevitable. (We talked a few days ago about sensory bias.) Should an individual choose to do so, the fight against it is as long as they exist in a conscious state, and exerts a tremendous amount of strain on the individual's mind, the way they present themselves to others, the way they handle information/process events; in short, a lifetime's worth of work is cut out for the person that chooses to fight it. Is anyone capable of doing so? Surely, who am I to say what you're capable of and what you're not. I really didn't want to be myself for a year, so I went and acted like I wouldn't for a while, and was perfectly capable of being as such and then returning back to my natural state. But the question I really want to address is why choose to do so, if it entails so much struggle and work?
The desire to experience things as they truly are. If one puts forth the effort necessary to eschew bias they have control over, and strictly deal in the most straight-forward, honest, truthful ideas and facts, the end result would be reaching a more clearly defined reality in which to live. Of course we're not forgetting the fact that reality is filtered through our own senses and perception. Sure, we can mishear a word and interpret an idea that wasn't actually stated in the first place. We can misspell a word and cause a misunderstanding. But these are correctable to some extent when you recognize they've happened, if you choose to. When you've misheard someone, ask them to repeat themselves. When you've misspelled a word, supplement the correct spelling. As long as you keep your wits about you and stay on your toes, there's no reason why most people can't do this.
When I chose to forego doing so, I did the most utterly stupid thing I can possibly think of doing, and said a long string of terrible skewed things that in turn skewed people around me and made them question my lucidity. (Abrupt schisms between the person's real-time behavior/speech and those of their correlating persona in the viewer's mind don't sit well with anyone, especially if you've been dating them for six years.) I'm done with it, having snapped out of it and pried my mind wide open.
I want what I had always wanted: a keen grasp of reality as pure and uninfluenced as I can get it. I want the truth.
Finally.
A story.
Symbiotic
It's been a long time since she'd left the water, a lifetime it felt like, or maybe no time at all, maybe a heartbeat, a single footstep, a breath. Groping around in the undergrowth she'd pulled herself up into, her search began for something outside. Running blind from the pond that time, arms out, grabbing for anything to grip onto so she could get more leverage, push herself away, drive distance between her and it.
On her path cutting away from the pond, she sprints through and eventually leaves the dark, damp nest of tangled vegetation. She stops when she finds herself in a desert full of people, whole oceans of people with little else there: a prickly cactus, or a small shrub drying in the burning sun.
She passes through these oceans milling around in the sand, so intent on looking, on inspecting their faces and watching their interactions, that she forgets why she had come. Sometimes, two people would bump into each other, lock eyes, and stay like this for a short time before moving on. She has no idea what it means, but gives it a few tries, hoping she might find the answer to what she was searching for this far out.
The first person she does this with she could tell was aware of her presence, and when their eyes meet, she recoils slowly at the sight of so many human flaws packed into one being. The next one she can also tell was feeling her out before their eyes locked, and that too doesn't last long.
She becomes immensely bored. Not only can she see all of them coming, but every single one is deeply flawed; their eyes are dull and dry, the same beige reflected from the sand they wander around on.
How much time passed, she can’t tell. She moves from eyes to eyes, each repetitious story she reads in them loosening her mind a little bit more each time. Despite her slipping hold on who she is, however, no matter the space between her and what she had been running from, there is something following her. A thought. One singularity of consciousness, a fragment of something she thought she had lost. The thought had been following her on her mental vacation, surfacing in between staring contests: she wants to go back. In fact, upon thinking this, she realizes she hates this desert and its wilting citizens, its sun that stings and keeps her eyes focused down.
She wants to go back.
All around her, bland blank faces, slowly migrating bodies. She can’t see the edge of the forest anymore. In every direction are these people, full of inhibitions, full of fake fronts and selective sight. The panic slowly rises in her throat, forming a scream, but it catches on her tongue and it won’t come out. She shoves a few people out of the way, digging through them, trying to get within sight of that place she had been away from for so long. Nothing, though. Just more bodies.
She begins pushing them. They stumble, some fall over, and she just steps over them and elbows the next few aside. The thought swells larger with every breath of stifling, gritty air. Go back. This is not your place. You shouldn’t be here. Faster, stronger shoves, running now, stepping on the limbs and torsos falling before here. Plowing through them, the fervor of the thought making her break into a cold sweat despite the heat. Beads across her forehead. A trickle down her spine.
Sand in her face, under her fingernails, sticking to the slick sweat on her neck. She can’t tear through them fast enough. Where is she? How did she get here? Everything is so dry. She can’t find the tree line. Trees? Is that what she’s trying to see? She’ll never make it.
A glimpse of green. Interrupted by the eyes of someone whom she had locked with before. The only one who had turned away from her before she had a chance to.
She paused, the span of time between heartbeats.
Shove.
Leaves now. Shadows cast onto the sand. The sight alone gives her the strength to wedge herself past the last of them, stumbling out and falling facedown in front of the outermost trees. A cold breath of wind runs over her back, and she lifts her head. It’s here. Waiting for her. At first glance, the place seemed to be as she is slowly remembering. She stands up and brushes the sand from her legs. Takes her first strides in. Something is out of place.
The leaves still attached to the limbs of the trees she can see are sparse and leathery with dehydration. There is no path leading in, so she must make one, but the dead branches are breaking under her feet and tripping her, or letting her sink down into the decomposing floor of the woods. Where are all the living plants? Where are the sprouts, the mature flowers, the thick veins of ivy?
Making her way in is time-consuming, or so it seems, and she has to rest often, her body not being used to the struggle of navigating the forest compared with the ease of shuffling her feet in the desert sand. Her strength wanes, but the thought is still with her, and she pushes onward. In her absence, the forest has withered. A faint note of grief hangs in the air, and coupling with the new tang of dying flora, the cool air smells foreign to her. She drags herself through the thick drifts of dead leaves and broken branches, sucking in the disappointingly dry air with each exertion.
As the realization of what has happened hits her, and of how lost she is, she lets her body drop down next to a nearby fallen trunk. She didn’t know where the pond was, or if there even was a pond still, or what she could do about the massive dying out of the forest. Her arms wrap around the disintegrating trunk, buries her face in the wet moss, and she cries until her eyelashes are matted together.
When the tears have dried on her face, and her grip on the tree relaxes, she curls up and thinks to herself quietly. I don’t know if I can find it. I don’t know if I’ll make it there. But I must try. There’s nothing left for me if I don’t try.
Her legs pick her up and set her on her feet. One step. Another step. Another. She lets the momentum carry her, guiding her in the opposite direction of the tenuous drafts of cool air that sweep through the trees. Time comes to a standstill. The pond is close.
She walks through the dying long grass and stiff, dried reeds, and the wet ground underneath is making the soles of her feet damp. Her eyes squint, trying to penetrate the deep shadows, but all she can make out is the outer edge of the water. The looming trees stand around her, tall as giants, stoically watching her pause near the edge of the pond.
Even though her eyes have adjusted to the deep shadows in the woods, she doesn’t see the surface of the pond until the leaves shift in the breeze and dim moonlight is allowed to touch down to where she stands. She hesitates.
The perfectly smooth water that used to reflect the surrounding plants is now thick and dense. She stares down, searching out the bottom, but everything beyond the surface is obscured by mud and algae.
All of these horrible changes would never have happened had she not left. She would’ve never become so lost. Frozen before the pond, she wonders if she even deserves to return to the place she used to call home. Is she tainted from leaving? Is she forever disgraced?
No answer would come.
Clenching her teeth, she realizes that the only thing between her and where she came from, where she had traveled all this way for, was her own fear. The last barrier. The last battle.
She leaps from her place in the silt of the pond, arching her body, and dives down into the familiar unknown.
Somewhere, a citrus-green leaf bud unfolds.
A story.
Symbiotic
It's been a long time since she'd left the water, a lifetime it felt like, or maybe no time at all, maybe a heartbeat, a single footstep, a breath. Groping around in the undergrowth she'd pulled herself up into, her search began for something outside. Running blind from the pond that time, arms out, grabbing for anything to grip onto so she could get more leverage, push herself away, drive distance between her and it.
On her path cutting away from the pond, she sprints through and eventually leaves the dark, damp nest of tangled vegetation. She stops when she finds herself in a desert full of people, whole oceans of people with little else there: a prickly cactus, or a small shrub drying in the burning sun.
She passes through these oceans milling around in the sand, so intent on looking, on inspecting their faces and watching their interactions, that she forgets why she had come. Sometimes, two people would bump into each other, lock eyes, and stay like this for a short time before moving on. She has no idea what it means, but gives it a few tries, hoping she might find the answer to what she was searching for this far out.
The first person she does this with she could tell was aware of her presence, and when their eyes meet, she recoils slowly at the sight of so many human flaws packed into one being. The next one she can also tell was feeling her out before their eyes locked, and that too doesn't last long.
She becomes immensely bored. Not only can she see all of them coming, but every single one is deeply flawed; their eyes are dull and dry, the same beige reflected from the sand they wander around on.
How much time passed, she can’t tell. She moves from eyes to eyes, each repetitious story she reads in them loosening her mind a little bit more each time. Despite her slipping hold on who she is, however, no matter the space between her and what she had been running from, there is something following her. A thought. One singularity of consciousness, a fragment of something she thought she had lost. The thought had been following her on her mental vacation, surfacing in between staring contests: she wants to go back. In fact, upon thinking this, she realizes she hates this desert and its wilting citizens, its sun that stings and keeps her eyes focused down.
She wants to go back.
All around her, bland blank faces, slowly migrating bodies. She can’t see the edge of the forest anymore. In every direction are these people, full of inhibitions, full of fake fronts and selective sight. The panic slowly rises in her throat, forming a scream, but it catches on her tongue and it won’t come out. She shoves a few people out of the way, digging through them, trying to get within sight of that place she had been away from for so long. Nothing, though. Just more bodies.
She begins pushing them. They stumble, some fall over, and she just steps over them and elbows the next few aside. The thought swells larger with every breath of stifling, gritty air. Go back. This is not your place. You shouldn’t be here. Faster, stronger shoves, running now, stepping on the limbs and torsos falling before here. Plowing through them, the fervor of the thought making her break into a cold sweat despite the heat. Beads across her forehead. A trickle down her spine.
Sand in her face, under her fingernails, sticking to the slick sweat on her neck. She can’t tear through them fast enough. Where is she? How did she get here? Everything is so dry. She can’t find the tree line. Trees? Is that what she’s trying to see? She’ll never make it.
A glimpse of green. Interrupted by the eyes of someone whom she had locked with before. The only one who had turned away from her before she had a chance to.
She paused, the span of time between heartbeats.
Shove.
Leaves now. Shadows cast onto the sand. The sight alone gives her the strength to wedge herself past the last of them, stumbling out and falling facedown in front of the outermost trees. A cold breath of wind runs over her back, and she lifts her head. It’s here. Waiting for her. At first glance, the place seemed to be as she is slowly remembering. She stands up and brushes the sand from her legs. Takes her first strides in. Something is out of place.
The leaves still attached to the limbs of the trees she can see are sparse and leathery with dehydration. There is no path leading in, so she must make one, but the dead branches are breaking under her feet and tripping her, or letting her sink down into the decomposing floor of the woods. Where are all the living plants? Where are the sprouts, the mature flowers, the thick veins of ivy?
Making her way in is time-consuming, or so it seems, and she has to rest often, her body not being used to the struggle of navigating the forest compared with the ease of shuffling her feet in the desert sand. Her strength wanes, but the thought is still with her, and she pushes onward. In her absence, the forest has withered. A faint note of grief hangs in the air, and coupling with the new tang of dying flora, the cool air smells foreign to her. She drags herself through the thick drifts of dead leaves and broken branches, sucking in the disappointingly dry air with each exertion.
As the realization of what has happened hits her, and of how lost she is, she lets her body drop down next to a nearby fallen trunk. She didn’t know where the pond was, or if there even was a pond still, or what she could do about the massive dying out of the forest. Her arms wrap around the disintegrating trunk, buries her face in the wet moss, and she cries until her eyelashes are matted together.
When the tears have dried on her face, and her grip on the tree relaxes, she curls up and thinks to herself quietly. I don’t know if I can find it. I don’t know if I’ll make it there. But I must try. There’s nothing left for me if I don’t try.
Her legs pick her up and set her on her feet. One step. Another step. Another. She lets the momentum carry her, guiding her in the opposite direction of the tenuous drafts of cool air that sweep through the trees. Time comes to a standstill. The pond is close.
She walks through the dying long grass and stiff, dried reeds, and the wet ground underneath is making the soles of her feet damp. Her eyes squint, trying to penetrate the deep shadows, but all she can make out is the outer edge of the water. The looming trees stand around her, tall as giants, stoically watching her pause near the edge of the pond.
Even though her eyes have adjusted to the deep shadows in the woods, she doesn’t see the surface of the pond until the leaves shift in the breeze and dim moonlight is allowed to touch down to where she stands. She hesitates.
The perfectly smooth water that used to reflect the surrounding plants is now thick and dense. She stares down, searching out the bottom, but everything beyond the surface is obscured by mud and algae.
All of these horrible changes would never have happened had she not left. She would’ve never become so lost. Frozen before the pond, she wonders if she even deserves to return to the place she used to call home. Is she tainted from leaving? Is she forever disgraced?
No answer would come.
Clenching her teeth, she realizes that the only thing between her and where she came from, where she had traveled all this way for, was her own fear. The last barrier. The last battle.
She leaps from her place in the silt of the pond, arching her body, and dives down into the familiar unknown.
Somewhere, a citrus-green leaf bud unfolds.
Black now. Because white hurts my eyes.
Scavenging Thrilled2behere, or what I can find of it. Since it's not online anymore. Saving everything so I have something to look back on if these cached versions ever disappear as well.
Finding lots of things I missed. Going through it in a most keen, inspecting way.
Writing writing writing. Rumblings of a dilemma. Calm before the story.
Every time I go to sleep at night, I lay there for an hour and then I cry until I hurt so much I can't make a sound. So let's try not sleeping.
No matter how much coffee I drink, I can't seem.
To get rid.
Of this headache.
Scavenging Thrilled2behere, or what I can find of it. Since it's not online anymore. Saving everything so I have something to look back on if these cached versions ever disappear as well.
Finding lots of things I missed. Going through it in a most keen, inspecting way.
Writing writing writing. Rumblings of a dilemma. Calm before the story.
Every time I go to sleep at night, I lay there for an hour and then I cry until I hurt so much I can't make a sound. So let's try not sleeping.
No matter how much coffee I drink, I can't seem.
To get rid.
Of this headache.
10.15.2007
I've been reading all of these bits of writing on L0cke's website, and they're still the same bits from years ago, but I enjoy them a lot. I don't know how I can come back every year or so, read these, and find what I need to find in them every time. He drew and wrote Ride, the veritable manifesto of my relationship with Josiah, so I think he has a pretty good grasp on how something can be so fucked up and still work. Or at least why people in such fucked up relationships would want everything to work. Even though his spelling isn't great, even though he has a tough time resolving what he's thinking, it's still beautiful how it is.
I've been listening to music I haven't listened to in a long while, songs that used to comfort me in the long and lonely hours before he moved here. It's comforting now too, much in the same way. Feelings I can relate to. Feelings I remember from that time. Vast, mostly, and a few songs scattered around from Gackt and Placebo. My sucker love.
November looms on the horizon, and I can't help but feel some trepidation as I do every year. With my heart in one big knot over this, I have a sense of recklessness, like I won't be able to hold myself back from letting it get mixed up in my all or nothing attitude. And that the plot, even now, before I've put a single word to paper, is turning into a huge dramatic swell with more buildup than X. If that's what it's going to be, a tangle of emotion as raw as I'm feeling, then I can only hope it somehow turns into a beautiful collection of gestures guided by my small fingers.
---
I know that this is a reiteration of what I've said many times before at a younger age, but it bears repeating and further exploration right now, considering my horrified state at what I've done.
Inside everyone's head is a persona of everyone they know which remains static for the most part. There are certain ways these personas get altered:
+ The person they are attached to changes their behavior/viewpoints, contradictory behavior, new information, et cetera
+ The persona (all or part; all is extremely rare) is misplaced, never committed to memory, or the memory of them is damaged physically
+ The persona is altered through second-hand information passed along to the keeper
+ Intentionally changed by the keeper of the persona (e.g. intentional misinterpretation of actions/words)
Why would anyone want to do the last one? There are certain situations where the keeper could be put into a state of mind that would make them want to alter the persona themselves. This seems counter-intuitive if one is trying to retain their grasp on reality. If one were to desire a hold on reality, they would try to avoid doing this if at all possible. In fact, the two controllable factors here (the third and fourth) should be avoided with every ounce of strength one has in order to better hold a more accurate sense of truth and reality. One could even argue this for the second, but there's a line past which one can't control physical memory, such as is the case with Alzheimer's, coma, severe head injury. (Well, one could try, but at what point would that interfere with the pursuit of knowledge?)
The most attention should be paid to the first, where first-hand knowledge -- the best kind -- is gained directly from the source. Any manipulation of incoming data occurs either during the viewing (mental state or otherwise affecting the ability to take incoming events/information on without bias), or after attaching it to existing events/memories (perhaps in a state of unbiased viewing... or close to it).
What would bias incoming information? Everything. Literally anything. The emotional state of the viewer, what prior knowledge the viewer holds, the previous experiences of the viewer. Any of these.
[An interesting pursuit, especially for the heavily biased, would be to attempt to take everything in unbiased and try to keep it unbiased for as long as possible, and then to keep it from acquiring as little bias as possible. A good test of control over oneself.]
We're keeping in mind here that reality itself is filtered by our senses that are uncontrollably selective -- try listening to three conversations at once, parsing who's talking about what, and on top of that understanding it all; this is nigh impossible. I tried multiple times throughout the summer with two different conversations happening concurrently, and I had to close my eyes and cut out other sense stimulation to do it successfully. Show me a person who can do it with three and I'll show you someone I could learn a thing or two from. By nature, then, we bias to some degree. We miss things entirely sometimes, either not committing them to long-term memory from short-term, or by irregularities in the senses. (Perhaps the former is tied into the latter.)
L0cke mentioned this in one of his writing bits, the irregularities of everything keeping things from being perfect, keeping us from going insane. Echoing the same thing Conrad said last night on our walk: if two people get along fine, understanding each other and agreeing readily, how immensely boring.
I think this is why, ultimately, people bore me with their transparencies; I need a challenge to wrap my mind around and work on with all of my ability and prowess. And yes, I'm aware how hypocritical that sounds considering what I've become. I am positive I bored a few people with my retarded decisions and stunted, weak, fragile method of handling everything. I was so blatantly blind to my own behavior, it's not surprising Josiah's treating me how he is. Even now, each time I catch myself subconsciously saying something that is disgustingly soft, I am repulsed and instantly correct what I was saying. Today, I decided to resort to not speaking unless I'm sure I have something to say.
Back to the subject at hand: the persona of myself is so different from what I honestly think I really am now. (I feel as if I've just regained my body after having lost it to some kind of pod person with an assimilated mind and the most rudimentary control over their own actions...) Embedded in so many people is this person I've made myself into, and I have a mountain of work ahead of me if I want to replace that persona with the real one. I used to hold in such high regard being the only one I knew who could be so plainly honest about who she was and how things were, I've all but thrown that away.
I've already begun with Erin, Danielle, Josiah and others. Of all people, right now I think Conrad gets what's going on best; he's seen all of my expressed emotion at camp, saw the ups and downs, heard all of the stupidity and the sparse cleverness. He might not read me like I do him, but he listens and remembers and tries to understand as much as he can.
And, unlike most other people, he is readily accepting these changes I'm making and listening with an open mind. I can't imagine how I deserve to be treated as such, but if he's willing to be so open, I'm willing to be so honest for the first time in a long time.
I've been listening to music I haven't listened to in a long while, songs that used to comfort me in the long and lonely hours before he moved here. It's comforting now too, much in the same way. Feelings I can relate to. Feelings I remember from that time. Vast, mostly, and a few songs scattered around from Gackt and Placebo. My sucker love.
November looms on the horizon, and I can't help but feel some trepidation as I do every year. With my heart in one big knot over this, I have a sense of recklessness, like I won't be able to hold myself back from letting it get mixed up in my all or nothing attitude. And that the plot, even now, before I've put a single word to paper, is turning into a huge dramatic swell with more buildup than X. If that's what it's going to be, a tangle of emotion as raw as I'm feeling, then I can only hope it somehow turns into a beautiful collection of gestures guided by my small fingers.
---
I know that this is a reiteration of what I've said many times before at a younger age, but it bears repeating and further exploration right now, considering my horrified state at what I've done.
Inside everyone's head is a persona of everyone they know which remains static for the most part. There are certain ways these personas get altered:
+ The person they are attached to changes their behavior/viewpoints, contradictory behavior, new information, et cetera
+ The persona (all or part; all is extremely rare) is misplaced, never committed to memory, or the memory of them is damaged physically
+ The persona is altered through second-hand information passed along to the keeper
+ Intentionally changed by the keeper of the persona (e.g. intentional misinterpretation of actions/words)
Why would anyone want to do the last one? There are certain situations where the keeper could be put into a state of mind that would make them want to alter the persona themselves. This seems counter-intuitive if one is trying to retain their grasp on reality. If one were to desire a hold on reality, they would try to avoid doing this if at all possible. In fact, the two controllable factors here (the third and fourth) should be avoided with every ounce of strength one has in order to better hold a more accurate sense of truth and reality. One could even argue this for the second, but there's a line past which one can't control physical memory, such as is the case with Alzheimer's, coma, severe head injury. (Well, one could try, but at what point would that interfere with the pursuit of knowledge?)
The most attention should be paid to the first, where first-hand knowledge -- the best kind -- is gained directly from the source. Any manipulation of incoming data occurs either during the viewing (mental state or otherwise affecting the ability to take incoming events/information on without bias), or after attaching it to existing events/memories (perhaps in a state of unbiased viewing... or close to it).
What would bias incoming information? Everything. Literally anything. The emotional state of the viewer, what prior knowledge the viewer holds, the previous experiences of the viewer. Any of these.
[An interesting pursuit, especially for the heavily biased, would be to attempt to take everything in unbiased and try to keep it unbiased for as long as possible, and then to keep it from acquiring as little bias as possible. A good test of control over oneself.]
We're keeping in mind here that reality itself is filtered by our senses that are uncontrollably selective -- try listening to three conversations at once, parsing who's talking about what, and on top of that understanding it all; this is nigh impossible. I tried multiple times throughout the summer with two different conversations happening concurrently, and I had to close my eyes and cut out other sense stimulation to do it successfully. Show me a person who can do it with three and I'll show you someone I could learn a thing or two from. By nature, then, we bias to some degree. We miss things entirely sometimes, either not committing them to long-term memory from short-term, or by irregularities in the senses. (Perhaps the former is tied into the latter.)
L0cke mentioned this in one of his writing bits, the irregularities of everything keeping things from being perfect, keeping us from going insane. Echoing the same thing Conrad said last night on our walk: if two people get along fine, understanding each other and agreeing readily, how immensely boring.
I think this is why, ultimately, people bore me with their transparencies; I need a challenge to wrap my mind around and work on with all of my ability and prowess. And yes, I'm aware how hypocritical that sounds considering what I've become. I am positive I bored a few people with my retarded decisions and stunted, weak, fragile method of handling everything. I was so blatantly blind to my own behavior, it's not surprising Josiah's treating me how he is. Even now, each time I catch myself subconsciously saying something that is disgustingly soft, I am repulsed and instantly correct what I was saying. Today, I decided to resort to not speaking unless I'm sure I have something to say.
Back to the subject at hand: the persona of myself is so different from what I honestly think I really am now. (I feel as if I've just regained my body after having lost it to some kind of pod person with an assimilated mind and the most rudimentary control over their own actions...) Embedded in so many people is this person I've made myself into, and I have a mountain of work ahead of me if I want to replace that persona with the real one. I used to hold in such high regard being the only one I knew who could be so plainly honest about who she was and how things were, I've all but thrown that away.
I've already begun with Erin, Danielle, Josiah and others. Of all people, right now I think Conrad gets what's going on best; he's seen all of my expressed emotion at camp, saw the ups and downs, heard all of the stupidity and the sparse cleverness. He might not read me like I do him, but he listens and remembers and tries to understand as much as he can.
And, unlike most other people, he is readily accepting these changes I'm making and listening with an open mind. I can't imagine how I deserve to be treated as such, but if he's willing to be so open, I'm willing to be so honest for the first time in a long time.
10.14.2007
"A writer must collect valuable experiences so they can write about them later. The more dangerous an experience is, the more valuable it is. Since less people would have lived through it to write about it."
- Bend, page 20
I don't get it. Back in the apartment on 148th with Josiah and I by ourselves, I was being just as stupid in different ways. What the fuck? How could I have possibly thought that ALL of that was EXCUSABLE? HOW?! Jesus fucking christ.
The immense idiocy of the last few years is fucking ASTOUNDING on my part.
Feeling my teeth cut into these carrots and the resulting snapping sounds, like biting into bones. Chomp chomp chomp.
That walk was good but I feel like I need to just walk forever before all of this is going to get sorted out and into place. Miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep.
Let's start back. Way back. Way. Way. Back.
That day I made the most hideous mistake of lying to Josiah about going to Canada. And then tried to convince Keith to sleep with me.
WHAT THE FUCK.
You moron.
I can't even fathom how I had tried to justify all of that. How does one justify idiocy? With idiotic excuses that have little basis in reality.
All those times that I turned him away. All the times I told him no. How could I. How could I say all those things with such a blank expression.
- Bend, page 20
I don't get it. Back in the apartment on 148th with Josiah and I by ourselves, I was being just as stupid in different ways. What the fuck? How could I have possibly thought that ALL of that was EXCUSABLE? HOW?! Jesus fucking christ.
The immense idiocy of the last few years is fucking ASTOUNDING on my part.
Feeling my teeth cut into these carrots and the resulting snapping sounds, like biting into bones. Chomp chomp chomp.
That walk was good but I feel like I need to just walk forever before all of this is going to get sorted out and into place. Miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep.
Let's start back. Way back. Way. Way. Back.
That day I made the most hideous mistake of lying to Josiah about going to Canada. And then tried to convince Keith to sleep with me.
WHAT THE FUCK.
You moron.
I can't even fathom how I had tried to justify all of that. How does one justify idiocy? With idiotic excuses that have little basis in reality.
All those times that I turned him away. All the times I told him no. How could I. How could I say all those things with such a blank expression.
10.12.2007
Okay so bear with me, this translation is probably part shite, but I know at least half of it is right. I have faith enough in my abilities to say so. I took some liberties regardless. Call it emotional bias.
Also, I can't stop listening to this song, so why not translate it while I'm listening to it?
あなたに見えますか?私の姿
あなたに聞こえますか?私の声
Can you see
My shape
Can you hear
My voice
地図に隠された 道をたどり
ここまで来てよ そこにいるから
The map was hidden
I struggle down the road
Coming here from being there
どんなに離れても
遠くにいても
きっとわかるから
きっと会えるから
How much are we separated by?
You're far away
But I know for sure
That we'll be able to meet
I deserve this. I totally deserve to feel like I do. I only wish I could give a year of my life to grief so that I could try to make it fair. It wasn't fair oh god
oh god
今日は舞踏会の日。
まるで果てを知らない この大地の上で
三日三晩続く
Today is the day to dance
As if I don't know of an end, I continue going on
This earth for three days and nights
あなたに私が見えるのなら
あなたにこの音が聞こえるのなら
You will be able to see me
You'll be able to hear this sound
私と踊ってよ 夕日が壊れるまで
私と踊ってよ あの森が溶けるまで
私にふれてよ ねぇ いつまでも
And I'll dance until the setting sun breaks
And I'll dance until the forest thaws
I'll be moved, yes, forever
It's not FAIR. IT'S NOT FAIR.
How could I do that.
I've got nothing without him. I can't even... it hurts too much.
喜びも 悲しみも もう動かないものも
美しきものも 醜きもの
思い出せない どうしても思い出せない人
踊ってよ 踊ってよ
地図はどこにありましたか?
きっと来てよ きっと来てよ
今 灯をともすよ
Delight and sorrow and things that don't change
And beautiful things and ugly things
Don't I remember?
No matter what, don't I remember that person?
I'm dancing, I'm dancing
Where was the map?
I'm coming without fail
I'm coming without fail
Soon the light will turn on
私と踊ってよ あの砂が燃え尽きるまで
私にふれてよ ねぇ いつまでも
私と踊ってよ ねぇ いつまでも
And I'm dancing until the grit burns out
I'll be moved, yes, forever
And I'll dance, yes, forever
Also, I can't stop listening to this song, so why not translate it while I'm listening to it?
あなたに見えますか?私の姿
あなたに聞こえますか?私の声
Can you see
My shape
Can you hear
My voice
地図に隠された 道をたどり
ここまで来てよ そこにいるから
The map was hidden
I struggle down the road
Coming here from being there
どんなに離れても
遠くにいても
きっとわかるから
きっと会えるから
How much are we separated by?
You're far away
But I know for sure
That we'll be able to meet
I deserve this. I totally deserve to feel like I do. I only wish I could give a year of my life to grief so that I could try to make it fair. It wasn't fair oh god
oh god
今日は舞踏会の日。
まるで果てを知らない この大地の上で
三日三晩続く
Today is the day to dance
As if I don't know of an end, I continue going on
This earth for three days and nights
あなたに私が見えるのなら
あなたにこの音が聞こえるのなら
You will be able to see me
You'll be able to hear this sound
私と踊ってよ 夕日が壊れるまで
私と踊ってよ あの森が溶けるまで
私にふれてよ ねぇ いつまでも
And I'll dance until the setting sun breaks
And I'll dance until the forest thaws
I'll be moved, yes, forever
It's not FAIR. IT'S NOT FAIR.
How could I do that.
I've got nothing without him. I can't even... it hurts too much.
喜びも 悲しみも もう動かないものも
美しきものも 醜きもの
思い出せない どうしても思い出せない人
踊ってよ 踊ってよ
地図はどこにありましたか?
きっと来てよ きっと来てよ
今 灯をともすよ
Delight and sorrow and things that don't change
And beautiful things and ugly things
Don't I remember?
No matter what, don't I remember that person?
I'm dancing, I'm dancing
Where was the map?
I'm coming without fail
I'm coming without fail
Soon the light will turn on
私と踊ってよ あの砂が燃え尽きるまで
私にふれてよ ねぇ いつまでも
私と踊ってよ ねぇ いつまでも
And I'm dancing until the grit burns out
I'll be moved, yes, forever
And I'll dance, yes, forever
I have this itch to play the violin, and like most of my itches, I'd been IGNORING it (what the fuck) up until recently. How dumb. Like, really dumb. Going against everything I used to stand for dumb. While I was trying to live in the now, I ended up living for the now and in the future. If that makes applicable sense.
My hand seems to have changed its mind and just scribbled the rest of the unfinished thoughts down before I could even check the time. In silver, no less:
So we've determined that people struggle to admit that they're wrong, but why is it this way?
When someone admits to being wrong, there are some circumstances where it's perceived from that person's point of view as revealing a weakness or others. People want to be trusted, listened to, and not discounted or ignored because they have a reputation for being wrong, misguided, ignorant, misinformed, et cetera.
People also hate to disappoint. If people expect something of them, there's not just that fabricated expectation that came from prior behavior, but also a persona of the person in question that gets built up through the expectation of certain behaviors. (We would say that a persona is created in the process of getting acquainted with someone, but is decidedly static unless updated by new repetitious behaviors, and lives in the mind of the viewer.) If the behavior is erratic or outside of the norm, the conception of that person with their specific qualities changes (or perhaps threatens to change, if the behavior is perceived as easily excusable). Let's put this into context:
If a person (X) were to behave in a certain, specific way around person Y, Y would have a static conception of X in their mind, where alteration relies solely on any changes in X that Y becomes aware of. If Y were to think precisely of X as a smart, clever person with a good head on their shoulders, it would stand to reason that X's behavior is held against the latests image of X that Y has in their head; whenever X acts in a capacity that isn't fitting with the image, depending on the discrepancy and the severity per unique situational elements. Y might wonder why X would ever act stupidly if such an event were to occur, maybe be dismayed by it, disgusted by it, or even horrified and wondering where X went and who this replacement is.
Assume X has been intelligent, dedicated and committed in a notable way, and those have become base facets of who X is in Y's head. X, out of seemingly nowhere, begins to do something in direct contradiction of this: they drop out of school. Y, in disbelief, confronts X about this turn of events.
When X is asked about it, X realizes that the real reasoning behind it is obscured to them as well; they just up and stopped going to class. Faced with a direct, no=nonsense question, and understanding that saying "I'm not sure" flies in the face of the person Y has of X, X decides to make up an excus that, while plausible and probably somewhat true, are not the real reason, but a lie.
The truth would be "I'm not sure."
X says, "I ran out of time for a final, the professor blah blah deadlines blah grades et cetera," and all of this goes on until Y either uneasily accepts the answer (likely) or calls X on their massive load of bullshit (Josiah).
But WHY? Why would X do such a thing?
To keep the image up. That persona of X has become something that X also has come to measure up to. X, knowing that normally they would have an answer for Y, makes one related to their academic circumstances, but perhaps not even the true reason for X to drop out.
X concocts the response in an attempt to live up to the persona. Why? Take it even further. Why would X ever want to?
Because NOT doing so would alter the persona, even damage it, or at least threaten its current incarnation. The more X likes Y, the closer X and Y are, the more X wants Y to like them, the more motivation they have to maintain a favorable persona in Y's mind. X chooses to act upon this need, instead of being honest.
I was definitely being an X, many many times over. I just wanted Y to keep thinking I knew exactly what was going on and that I was in control. (Which is one of the main and most common motivations behind these lies or "half-truths" or whatever you want to call them.) In other words, not being honest with him or with me.
So there I have it. Now that I know how it functions, I can set it aside and be honest again. Perpetually. Like I want to be.
My hand seems to have changed its mind and just scribbled the rest of the unfinished thoughts down before I could even check the time. In silver, no less:
So we've determined that people struggle to admit that they're wrong, but why is it this way?
When someone admits to being wrong, there are some circumstances where it's perceived from that person's point of view as revealing a weakness or others. People want to be trusted, listened to, and not discounted or ignored because they have a reputation for being wrong, misguided, ignorant, misinformed, et cetera.
People also hate to disappoint. If people expect something of them, there's not just that fabricated expectation that came from prior behavior, but also a persona of the person in question that gets built up through the expectation of certain behaviors. (We would say that a persona is created in the process of getting acquainted with someone, but is decidedly static unless updated by new repetitious behaviors, and lives in the mind of the viewer.) If the behavior is erratic or outside of the norm, the conception of that person with their specific qualities changes (or perhaps threatens to change, if the behavior is perceived as easily excusable). Let's put this into context:
If a person (X) were to behave in a certain, specific way around person Y, Y would have a static conception of X in their mind, where alteration relies solely on any changes in X that Y becomes aware of. If Y were to think precisely of X as a smart, clever person with a good head on their shoulders, it would stand to reason that X's behavior is held against the latests image of X that Y has in their head; whenever X acts in a capacity that isn't fitting with the image, depending on the discrepancy and the severity per unique situational elements. Y might wonder why X would ever act stupidly if such an event were to occur, maybe be dismayed by it, disgusted by it, or even horrified and wondering where X went and who this replacement is.
Assume X has been intelligent, dedicated and committed in a notable way, and those have become base facets of who X is in Y's head. X, out of seemingly nowhere, begins to do something in direct contradiction of this: they drop out of school. Y, in disbelief, confronts X about this turn of events.
When X is asked about it, X realizes that the real reasoning behind it is obscured to them as well; they just up and stopped going to class. Faced with a direct, no=nonsense question, and understanding that saying "I'm not sure" flies in the face of the person Y has of X, X decides to make up an excus that, while plausible and probably somewhat true, are not the real reason, but a lie.
The truth would be "I'm not sure."
X says, "I ran out of time for a final, the professor blah blah deadlines blah grades et cetera," and all of this goes on until Y either uneasily accepts the answer (likely) or calls X on their massive load of bullshit (Josiah).
But WHY? Why would X do such a thing?
To keep the image up. That persona of X has become something that X also has come to measure up to. X, knowing that normally they would have an answer for Y, makes one related to their academic circumstances, but perhaps not even the true reason for X to drop out.
X concocts the response in an attempt to live up to the persona. Why? Take it even further. Why would X ever want to?
Because NOT doing so would alter the persona, even damage it, or at least threaten its current incarnation. The more X likes Y, the closer X and Y are, the more X wants Y to like them, the more motivation they have to maintain a favorable persona in Y's mind. X chooses to act upon this need, instead of being honest.
I was definitely being an X, many many times over. I just wanted Y to keep thinking I knew exactly what was going on and that I was in control. (Which is one of the main and most common motivations behind these lies or "half-truths" or whatever you want to call them.) In other words, not being honest with him or with me.
So there I have it. Now that I know how it functions, I can set it aside and be honest again. Perpetually. Like I want to be.
10.11.2007
Oof, this whole thing hit me like a big cement wall and I am still recovering and sorting things out.
I had a little... moment in the bathroom today.
-_-;
I would write more but it's not finished, so I'm saving it for tomorrow.
Me: it's in him somewhere
Tyler: shrug
Me: shrug? it's more important than that
Tyler: well ya, but i mean shrug at the response.
Me: have you ever wanted something so bad you would kill every living thing to obtain it? yeah. it's put me in a serious mood.
Tyler: i have, yes, and then i killed her with it. so i control that urge.
Me: well, i have someone who can not only stand up to it, but wouldn't have it any other way. so it's quite important that i get to him somehow, since he's buried himself so deep.
Tyler: get a shovel. its gonna be a long dig.
Me: i'm aware :\ but i need to find him. i have to.
Tyler: kk. its nice to see you have motivation for something i like to see you focused.
Me: heh, i'm so focused i'm giving myself headaches
Tyler: good
I had a little... moment in the bathroom today.
-_-;
I would write more but it's not finished, so I'm saving it for tomorrow.
Me: it's in him somewhere
Tyler: shrug
Me: shrug? it's more important than that
Tyler: well ya, but i mean shrug at the response.
Me: have you ever wanted something so bad you would kill every living thing to obtain it? yeah. it's put me in a serious mood.
Tyler: i have, yes, and then i killed her with it. so i control that urge.
Me: well, i have someone who can not only stand up to it, but wouldn't have it any other way. so it's quite important that i get to him somehow, since he's buried himself so deep.
Tyler: get a shovel. its gonna be a long dig.
Me: i'm aware :\ but i need to find him. i have to.
Tyler: kk. its nice to see you have motivation for something i like to see you focused.
Me: heh, i'm so focused i'm giving myself headaches
Tyler: good
No more self-censoring by omission. This place is my home and I will treat it as such. Most of this is from my spiral from today.
---
Out of nothing it creeps, coming out of my limbs, muscle, ligaments, seeping from under my eyelids, dribbling down the back of my throat to my tongue, cleaning my veins, traveling through capillaries into the joints in my fingers. Washing all of the residue away. Shedding the remnants of self-compromise. Everything that was allowed to settle gets stirred in or discarded. Flushing my system clean and replacing the good enoughs with the need to be better. Stronger. Faster.
Imagine your veins filled with antifreeze. Cool to the touch, even though your mind is running overclocked.
---
Not getting defensive.
Most of the time, there's nothing to get defensive over; it's me misinterpreting an action or misunderstanding a comment. I have a tough time taking criticism on myself and my actions. I will admit that.
Laying here on my bed, thinking up conversations I could have with him, writing in a spiral, all of this is so familiar to me. Reminds me of the time before he moved here.
Why be defensive? Why not be open to criticism regardless of whether it's valid? You have the challenge of determining its validity, right? Nothing wrong with that. If Josiah says I'm pathetically weak and my first reaction is to make excuses, what does that do for anyone? NOTHING. How about I own up to my own behavior. I've been limp and gentle in my responses to everyone. I've softened, become feminine in speech and mannerisms. ("I think", "I feel", "maybe". Ugh.) Let's just say it here, spell it out and get to the heart of it.
It's not that I was ever another way about this. In some capacity, I have always been defensive. Most of it comes from the gut, of needing a reasoning as to why something is a certain way. There's also the need to not have to admit that I'm wrong in a certain way and to confess it openly.
I can't be better at anything if I've only got my own point of view. Sometimes even people that don't know me well can be insightful. Josiah said it a while ago and I think I still believe that he is the only person I get so defensive with.
I don't want to do any wrong in his eyes; I never have, but I need to get it through my skull that he has the most valid advice, the most honest, straightforward, no-bullshit answers that I could ever wish out of anyone. Why get defensive?
I shouldn't.
I need to determine the validity of the statement made before I formulate a response.
Let's address this topic of love. I know I do because I have called this slew of feelings and emotions as such previously. Me loving him is wanting to take care of him without question when he gets hurt. It's trying not to worry about him riding a bike (which I do with a great deal of success). Knowing that he is so much smarter or cleverer than me sometimes. (That's kind of relative, but still.)
And it's more than that, so much more, with new elements mixed in. I know this place, I've been here before. In love with an uncaring, walled-in deeply aggressive tiger (thought you wouldn't see it; it's all deep beneath the surface), even as he is tearing my throat out, using what's left of my visceral vocal chords and bits of lung to tell him how much I care. He is a beautiful being, some kind of hyperintelligent killing machine that uses his lethal words as weapons. I love fighting this reclusiveness right now because he snaps the pure, unadulterated truth at me when provoked. And it's beautiful.
Josiah in his element is ridiculously sexy to me. His razor tongue so deftly cutting through bullshit and right into me. It's part of the reason I fell in love with him such a long time ago in the first place. I have a strange appreciation for his individual parts all working together to form something I can't escape and don't want to anymore. Just let myself get sucked in. Why fight? I've been feeling the tug since a few months after I left. I don't want to resist any longer.
I want Ride crazy back.
I want him and I back, more than I want to go back to school. More than I want to leave Nintendo. More than anything.
So maybe he is the only reason I can maintain such a fire within me right now. He is definitely stoking a fire that I can keep up on my own, but if I want to build on it? I need more. He was right about that feeling of the other person making everything worthwhile.
Everything I want to do, no matter how important, no matter how complex, no matter how logical it was to me to live for the future instead of the now, just meant absolutely nothing.
I don't need him to be alive, but I need him to live. I can't give up. I won't give up.
---
Out of nothing it creeps, coming out of my limbs, muscle, ligaments, seeping from under my eyelids, dribbling down the back of my throat to my tongue, cleaning my veins, traveling through capillaries into the joints in my fingers. Washing all of the residue away. Shedding the remnants of self-compromise. Everything that was allowed to settle gets stirred in or discarded. Flushing my system clean and replacing the good enoughs with the need to be better. Stronger. Faster.
Imagine your veins filled with antifreeze. Cool to the touch, even though your mind is running overclocked.
---
Not getting defensive.
Most of the time, there's nothing to get defensive over; it's me misinterpreting an action or misunderstanding a comment. I have a tough time taking criticism on myself and my actions. I will admit that.
Laying here on my bed, thinking up conversations I could have with him, writing in a spiral, all of this is so familiar to me. Reminds me of the time before he moved here.
Why be defensive? Why not be open to criticism regardless of whether it's valid? You have the challenge of determining its validity, right? Nothing wrong with that. If Josiah says I'm pathetically weak and my first reaction is to make excuses, what does that do for anyone? NOTHING. How about I own up to my own behavior. I've been limp and gentle in my responses to everyone. I've softened, become feminine in speech and mannerisms. ("I think", "I feel", "maybe". Ugh.) Let's just say it here, spell it out and get to the heart of it.
It's not that I was ever another way about this. In some capacity, I have always been defensive. Most of it comes from the gut, of needing a reasoning as to why something is a certain way. There's also the need to not have to admit that I'm wrong in a certain way and to confess it openly.
I can't be better at anything if I've only got my own point of view. Sometimes even people that don't know me well can be insightful. Josiah said it a while ago and I think I still believe that he is the only person I get so defensive with.
I don't want to do any wrong in his eyes; I never have, but I need to get it through my skull that he has the most valid advice, the most honest, straightforward, no-bullshit answers that I could ever wish out of anyone. Why get defensive?
I shouldn't.
I need to determine the validity of the statement made before I formulate a response.
Let's address this topic of love. I know I do because I have called this slew of feelings and emotions as such previously. Me loving him is wanting to take care of him without question when he gets hurt. It's trying not to worry about him riding a bike (which I do with a great deal of success). Knowing that he is so much smarter or cleverer than me sometimes. (That's kind of relative, but still.)
And it's more than that, so much more, with new elements mixed in. I know this place, I've been here before. In love with an uncaring, walled-in deeply aggressive tiger (thought you wouldn't see it; it's all deep beneath the surface), even as he is tearing my throat out, using what's left of my visceral vocal chords and bits of lung to tell him how much I care. He is a beautiful being, some kind of hyperintelligent killing machine that uses his lethal words as weapons. I love fighting this reclusiveness right now because he snaps the pure, unadulterated truth at me when provoked. And it's beautiful.
Josiah in his element is ridiculously sexy to me. His razor tongue so deftly cutting through bullshit and right into me. It's part of the reason I fell in love with him such a long time ago in the first place. I have a strange appreciation for his individual parts all working together to form something I can't escape and don't want to anymore. Just let myself get sucked in. Why fight? I've been feeling the tug since a few months after I left. I don't want to resist any longer.
I want Ride crazy back.
I want him and I back, more than I want to go back to school. More than I want to leave Nintendo. More than anything.
So maybe he is the only reason I can maintain such a fire within me right now. He is definitely stoking a fire that I can keep up on my own, but if I want to build on it? I need more. He was right about that feeling of the other person making everything worthwhile.
Everything I want to do, no matter how important, no matter how complex, no matter how logical it was to me to live for the future instead of the now, just meant absolutely nothing.
I don't need him to be alive, but I need him to live. I can't give up. I won't give up.
10.10.2007
It's back to that time where I have to work hard just to get up in the morning because the sun is not pouring into my room prying at my eyelids and nudging me gently until I'm conscious. The clouds get in the way, and though they set a canvas for a few beautiful sunrises, they're blocking my alarm from doing its job. Damn you!
I keep poking at Erin to think about her words and consider her actions before going ahead with them. She bitches a hell of a lot now at work and today I told her to shut up a few times, held my hands over my ears for a moment to make a point and she gets that it's unnecessary. But she doesn't stop for longer than a few hours. I really don't like sitting next to her while she's like this, I tell her to knock it off and so do other people but she keeps going going going like no one who could fire her is listening. It's just corporate bullshit, that's the way these companies work and even though I want it to change, I would need to raise an army of supporters before I could do such a thing without getting sued so badly I'd have to give them my cats or pants or something ridiculous.
I saw him today, he sat in my room and my eyes kept flitting around because if I look at him for too long I hurt inside somewhere primal, somewhere I shouldn't hurt but probably deserve to and I am quickly remembering all those traces of him inside of me.
I cry and it hurts so much and I just want to die but I'm also crying because I can feel. It's beautiful in a tragic way, crying and staring up at my ceiling with the off-center line and letting little pieces of it out at a time.
We're all so feisty today.
Edit:
Paradox Lain: i lifted up a piece of construction paper out of my pile i'm sorting through and on the underside were the dried leggy remnants of a smooshed spider
Paradox Lain: and my skin did that crawly thing that makes you go eeeeeeerrrhgghggghghh
I keep poking at Erin to think about her words and consider her actions before going ahead with them. She bitches a hell of a lot now at work and today I told her to shut up a few times, held my hands over my ears for a moment to make a point and she gets that it's unnecessary. But she doesn't stop for longer than a few hours. I really don't like sitting next to her while she's like this, I tell her to knock it off and so do other people but she keeps going going going like no one who could fire her is listening. It's just corporate bullshit, that's the way these companies work and even though I want it to change, I would need to raise an army of supporters before I could do such a thing without getting sued so badly I'd have to give them my cats or pants or something ridiculous.
I saw him today, he sat in my room and my eyes kept flitting around because if I look at him for too long I hurt inside somewhere primal, somewhere I shouldn't hurt but probably deserve to and I am quickly remembering all those traces of him inside of me.
I cry and it hurts so much and I just want to die but I'm also crying because I can feel. It's beautiful in a tragic way, crying and staring up at my ceiling with the off-center line and letting little pieces of it out at a time.
We're all so feisty today.
Edit:
Paradox Lain: i lifted up a piece of construction paper out of my pile i'm sorting through and on the underside were the dried leggy remnants of a smooshed spider
Paradox Lain: and my skin did that crawly thing that makes you go eeeeeeerrrhgghggghghh
10.09.2007
Your blood is red
It's beautiful
I've spent the day steeling myself, readying my feelings, steadying my hand. Made my decisions, set them in stone, cast them out where they belong.
I'm aware that this decision is it. If I go through with this, there's no returning to the way things were.
I choose this. Willingly. Fully aware of the repercussions should I falter. But I will not falter. I will not fail.
I want this too much to fail anymore.
Your fingerprints
Your flesh
Your arm
Your bones
I'd like to know
Why all these things move me
Whispers of thoughts from many years ago still kicking around in my head. "A person doesn't need to reciprocate anything in order to love them."
I find it's still true.
A part of me would like to travel in your veins
I'm ready.
Biological
I don't know why I feel that way with you
It's beautiful
I've spent the day steeling myself, readying my feelings, steadying my hand. Made my decisions, set them in stone, cast them out where they belong.
I'm aware that this decision is it. If I go through with this, there's no returning to the way things were.
I choose this. Willingly. Fully aware of the repercussions should I falter. But I will not falter. I will not fail.
I want this too much to fail anymore.
Your fingerprints
Your flesh
Your arm
Your bones
I'd like to know
Why all these things move me
Whispers of thoughts from many years ago still kicking around in my head. "A person doesn't need to reciprocate anything in order to love them."
I find it's still true.
A part of me would like to travel in your veins
I'm ready.
Biological
I don't know why I feel that way with you
10.08.2007
Beginning of an unfinished letter to Josiah, undated (circa August 2007):
Josiah ------
All of this is just murky water, clouded by the past and miscommunication and confusion. I keep wading in, but its obscured depths and what could be lurking beneath keeps scaring me out. I want to have the courage to just run in and take it as it comes, I want to dive into myself and unearth my feelings, dust off the incomplete volumes I left behind of you and me. But something keeps stopping me. Doubt maybe, fear, concern, inhibition, these things it could be but none of them pinpoint it. I wish I had an answer for you, or even myself.
snip
Josiah ------
All of this is just murky water, clouded by the past and miscommunication and confusion. I keep wading in, but its obscured depths and what could be lurking beneath keeps scaring me out. I want to have the courage to just run in and take it as it comes, I want to dive into myself and unearth my feelings, dust off the incomplete volumes I left behind of you and me. But something keeps stopping me. Doubt maybe, fear, concern, inhibition, these things it could be but none of them pinpoint it. I wish I had an answer for you, or even myself.
snip
10.07.2007
Pbbbbbt.
Story time, kids!
One of her roommates invites her to the party, and it isn't until after she said yeah, sure, that she realizes that there was a chance -- albeit slim -- of him being there.
What does it matter? She doubts she'll even stay that long. So she takes one of her other roommates with her so she doesn't get bored. By the time they get in the car, she's already forgotten about it.
They arrive, say their hellos, oh look, a friend of hers is here. She gets some margarita mix and bam -- eye contact from the kitchen to the living room.
He's here.
And she can tell from the moment that he looks at her.
Huh.
Her roommates chat him up about motorcycles and she darts over to that friend of hers she saw earlier. Talking, drinking, talking, ugh this margarita is horrible. Why is there chunks of orange in it? It's gross and chewy, but she's drinking it anyway. She plays with her cell phone trying to look busy.
Later: in the living room, music playing now that Guitar Hero has wound down. The host has hit his stride and all of a sudden most of the people there are dancing around to a ridiculous song and he's come over to her and bats the phone away and takes her into the small group of dancing, laughing bodies. She obliges and dances, the song changes, people leave, he takes her hand and spins her around and makes her laugh.
Sitting on the couch. "It's good to see you again."
In that tone of voice.
Shit.
She goes home with her drunk roommate. Punches the wall on the way down the stairs. Punches the driver-side window on the drive home.
"Boys are retarded."
"Yeah."
Story time, kids!
One of her roommates invites her to the party, and it isn't until after she said yeah, sure, that she realizes that there was a chance -- albeit slim -- of him being there.
What does it matter? She doubts she'll even stay that long. So she takes one of her other roommates with her so she doesn't get bored. By the time they get in the car, she's already forgotten about it.
They arrive, say their hellos, oh look, a friend of hers is here. She gets some margarita mix and bam -- eye contact from the kitchen to the living room.
He's here.
And she can tell from the moment that he looks at her.
Huh.
Her roommates chat him up about motorcycles and she darts over to that friend of hers she saw earlier. Talking, drinking, talking, ugh this margarita is horrible. Why is there chunks of orange in it? It's gross and chewy, but she's drinking it anyway. She plays with her cell phone trying to look busy.
Later: in the living room, music playing now that Guitar Hero has wound down. The host has hit his stride and all of a sudden most of the people there are dancing around to a ridiculous song and he's come over to her and bats the phone away and takes her into the small group of dancing, laughing bodies. She obliges and dances, the song changes, people leave, he takes her hand and spins her around and makes her laugh.
Sitting on the couch. "It's good to see you again."
In that tone of voice.
Shit.
She goes home with her drunk roommate. Punches the wall on the way down the stairs. Punches the driver-side window on the drive home.
"Boys are retarded."
"Yeah."
10.03.2007
Oof. What a fucking birthday.
From midnight Friday to 3 am Sunday:
Long Island
Georgia Peach
Persephone Long Island
Lemon Drop
Blowjob
Cape Cod
Black Opal
Washington Apple
Hawaiian Zombie
Kamikaze
Jack straight-up
Oatmeal Cookie
B52
Red Bull & Vodka
Holy fucking shit.
Yeah. First time puking. Never again. Ever.
I am so embarrassed about all of that we're not even going to talk about it anymore.
From midnight Friday to 3 am Sunday:
Long Island
Georgia Peach
Persephone Long Island
Lemon Drop
Blowjob
Cape Cod
Black Opal
Washington Apple
Hawaiian Zombie
Kamikaze
Jack straight-up
Oatmeal Cookie
B52
Red Bull & Vodka
Holy fucking shit.
Yeah. First time puking. Never again. Ever.
I am so embarrassed about all of that we're not even going to talk about it anymore.
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