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Wednesday, August 23rd, 2006
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Regret.
Why are people always and forever looking back on their lives and contemplating the X-factors that might have improved the quality of their lives presently? I admit, I too find myself filled with regret at times, not of what I wish I could change about my previous existence, but of what I wish I had done--what I wish I have yet to accomplish. Why? Fillers of time, fillers of grace. To ease the uncomfortable akwardness of family ties. To lessen the strain of responsibility. To be comfortable with less-than-self-satisfaction. Somehow, I have mixed all these factors into one amalgomous mass of self-doubt and self-preservation. Somehow, I have relied on these predators to sustain me for the long haul in. And I contemplate this to no end. I have to say, amidst my confusion, I recognize that I am happier now than I have ever been. I don’t care to say, or maybe even don’t care to discern whether my happiness may be a product of my deft ability to deny and remain oblivious to the world around me, or that it may truly be a product of happy circumstances.
Maybe, just maybe, my intermittent confusion may just be a product of my very tender youth…
Naivete?
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Comments: Read 7 or Add Your Own.
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Life is complex.
I never once dreamed as a little girl that I would be right here, right now, in this place in my life. Not that any of my circumstances are that extraordinary, but to my sense of propriety at this exact moment, it strikes me as absolutely preposterous. I may sound overly melodramatic, but as I reflect on godknowswhat sitting here on the hardwood floor at 12:37AM this morning with an empty glass of what used to be a gin and tonic sitting next to me, I have the thought that my life in it's entirety has been one big mood swing. I can sum up years of my life in epochs of emotion. Contrary to my earlier statement regarding the complexities of life, I seem to find it fairly easy to typify and label my experiences with rather ease. In some odd tone of slight embarassment, let's skip over the epochal emotions for now and go with simple description to heed my lack of self-disclosure right now.
Up until I was disciplined with my step-mother at the tender age of 11, I can honestly call my self, back then, a selfish self-motivated monger of a human being. I didn't know any better, I was an only child. distant. cold.
Until I was in high school from then, I would probably describe myself as an unctuous, anal, people pleasing, timid waste of space who knew no happiness.
College was interesting only because I discovered how happy I was away from my parents. And it wasn't just the usual teen angst of rebellion. I discovered what it was to be happy. Truly happy. Unbelievably so. To the point where I am at this point fairly estranged from them. And quite happily, thankyouverymuch.
I have memories of myself as a young girl, sitting in a cool quiet room, alone for much of the day, reading well worn books against well worn furniture, and playing with toothbrushes to make up for my overly active imagination and my lack of dolls and playmates. I have memories of myself as a preteen sitting outside in the inception of summer watching the sunlight sift through the deep green leaves of the stately maple above and fall down into the bright green grass, just thinking for hours on end while admiring life in it's finest. I have memories of myself laying in my bed, nude, as a newly grown woman, admiring my soft skin against the cool sheets of my bed. And now here, sitting here, I remember these moments and remember again, my complete comfort with being alone. Just as I sit now. Alone...
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Comments: Read 18 or Add Your Own.
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Friday, November 7th, 2003
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I stumble akwardly over words these days.
I remember a time when my ability to articulate could magically transform jarbled words and philosophies into beautifully phrased, beautiful enunciated, and logically progressive streams of thought. I loved the way I could fondle a single word in my mouth, rolling it over with my tongue in a slow drawl of expectation--a loving caress in the low smooth rumble of my voice. I took solace in the beauty I created. Knowing full well its impact on those around me, I wielded my gift as unabashedly as a siren would her song...
But not without consequence.
Alas, it is no more...
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Comments: Read 16 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, November 5th, 2003
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Einstein wrote this riddle and said that 98% of the world could not solve it, and there are no tricks.
There are 5 houses in 5 different colors. In each house lives a person of a different nationality. The 5 owners drink a certain type of beverage, smoke a certain brand of cigar, and keep a certain pet. No owners have the same pet, smoke the same brand cigar, or drink the same beverage.
The question: Who owns the fish?
Your hints
The British man lives in the red house.
The Swedish man keeps dogs as pets.
The Danish man drinks tea.
The green house is on the left of the white house.
The green house's owner drinks coffee.
The person who smokes Pall Mall rears birds.
The owner of the yellow house smokes Dunhill.
The man living in the center house drinks milk.
The Norwegian lives in the first house.
The man who smokes blends lives next to the one who keeps cats.
The man who keeps the horse lives next to the man who smokes Dunhill.
The owner who smokes Blue Masters drinks beer.
The German smokes Prince.
The Norwegian lives next to the blue house.
The man who smokes blends has a neighbor who drinks water.
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Comments: Read 14 or Add Your Own.
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Contrary to what ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) iamalibrarian believes, I think Johnny Cash's cover for NIN's "Hurt" video is the best goddamn music video I have ever seen.
lyrics below...
I hurt myself today,
to see if i still feel,
I focus on the pain,
the only thing thats real,
The needle tears a hole,
the old familiar sting,
try to kill it all away,
but I remember everything,
(Chorus)
what have I become,
my sweetest friend,
everyone i know,
goes away in the end,
and you could have it all,
my empire of dirt,
I will let you down,
I will make you hurt,
I wear this crown of thorns,
upon my liars chair,
full of broken thoughts,
I cannot repair,
beneath the stains of time,
the feelings dissapear,
you are someone else,
I am still right here,
What have I become,
my sweetest friend,
everyone I know,
goes away in the end,
and you could have it all,
my empire of dirt,
I will let you down,
I will make you hurt,
if I could start agian,
a million miles away,
I will keep myself,
I would find a way...
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Comments: Read 5 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, April 23rd, 2003
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Interestingly enough, the word of the day today on ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) wordoftheday is nonage.
Today supposedly marks the end of my nonage, albeit, we all know my naivety extends far beyond a two digit number... ;)
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, April 9th, 2003
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Simplicity of thought has been hard to come by as of late.
I left my current literary dish at Tim's place so I've picked up Lord of the Flies to bide me over til I can get my hands on it again. I must have read this novel 2 or 3 times by now, but I'm struck anew by the author's lyrical fascination with words. It's hard storyline marked by beautiful figurative interweavings of connotation. And the heavy pall which seems to settle quickly on my shoulders as I continue through the denouement...
--and then I settle back into my textbooks and studyguides.
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Comments: Read 6 or Add Your Own.
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| Time: | 6:37 pm. |
| Music: | Suzane Vegas - Tom's Diner. |
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It's a wondrous thing to be stirred awake by the world around you...
My life has receded into the shadows of my dreams.
Have you ever felt that you no longer knew what was right or wrong anymore? It's not that I don't know the difference between reality and not--I do... It's just that my non reality has become much more alive to me than my own reality.
I can't seem to shake this feeling that I don't really live anymore except for when I dream. I wake up with this hazy feeling of recognition. Traces of REM still lingering in my memory and then the monotony of reality continues. I go through the same motions of living, breathing, doing. And I realize that I don't live anymore. I merely exist. And I only really feel alive when I sleep. How frustrating. How resigned I feel. That I have no control over which realm of life takes precedence in my mind. And that I wake up only wishing to continue the verisimilitude of life I was temporarily engaged in. Not willing to let it go. And disappointed that I only have the gray scale of this to the Technicolor of that which lies in my head at night. And I wish I could dream forever...
But sometimes, just once in awhile, I'll wake up from my dive into the surreal and lift my head above water and take in gasping breaths of cold clean air. Reality. Beautiful blue gray skies with hints of lavender and brooding melancholy all waiting to be enjoyed. Things my imaginary could never manifest. And I wonder at the confusion of it all. And I wish I could be awake forever...
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Comments: Read 7 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, March 5th, 2003
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| Time: | 1:09 pm. |
| Mood: |  peaceful. | | Music: | Maroon 5 - She will be loved. |
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I laid in bed this morning enjoying the weather. My room, dimly lit with innocence - unpretentious. And the light erratically vacillating between on and off. I thought of a child in the sky discovering heaven's light-switch. The clouds must move swiftly...
And I laid in bed, enjoying the sensual moment. The brisk spring chill against my body tangled in the bedsheets. Tan, like my skin. One leg under, one leg out. Warm, cold. And I thought to myself, that I like this contrast - the warm, almost prenatal embrace of my bedsheets against the parts of my nude body exposed to the cool air. Parts of my body which camouflage themselves in my tan sheets.
I remember reading the Bronte sisters and their detailed descriptions of the heath of England swaying in the wind, and I feel as if I'm there, right at the moment. The Wind in the Willows. The Secret Garden. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The Virginian. And then bits and pieces of books long ago read come to mind. Parts of racy spy novels I used to sneak out of my father's library after I had tired of my own well read collection. Like Ken Follett. Small alabaster breasts. Onyx hair. Milky skin. I was intrigued with these word pairings. The imagery they produced. And I touch my own skin. Strong, supple, but not frail... And I like the way my skin feels against my hand.
And I lay in bed for just a little longer...
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Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.
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| Time: | 9:47 am. |
| Mood: | foul. | | Music: | fuck you. no, not you. just everybody. |
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I'm worn out. Body and soul.
Sometimes you just have to sit and rethink the things in your life. You know you're happy, but you wonder, could things be better for me? Opportunities of interest present themselves and they're tempting. Very fun, lighthearted, simple. The worst kind of tempting. The kind that you think is innocent, playful, absolutely harmless. And then all the right things in your life suddenly don't taste as sweet anymore. Maybe even a little bitter. And it makes you angry. Maybe even a little foul. And then the right things that were supposed to understand and be nurturing don't seem to care anymore. They no longer give a flaming shit. And you feel destitute, because you want the right things back and you want to stop thinking about all things tempting. But they just-don't-care.
And they don't call you in the mornings.
I'm worn out.
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, February 12th, 2003
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| Time: | 9:46 pm. |
| Mood: |  nostalgic. | | Music: | Bach's Cello Suite 1, 2 Allemande. |
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I played cello for 6 years.
I played the piano for 5 years as well.
But, I remember lugging that big hunk of wood and string that was almost as big as I was around elementary school and hating it. I was banned from the bus whenever I had school practices due to its unwieldy nature. The guys in my cello class would snicker over my "man-voice". I abhorred practicing, and yet there my stepmother was, forcing hard calluses onto my fingers. She would listen to her beloved Yo-Yo Ma and intimidate me into adoring him as well. And then in the middle of high school, I quit. On the premise of a mounting work load and a new found interest in lacrosse, I quit.
I could play Bach's Cello Suite No. 1, 2 Allemande beautifully.
Now, I think I'm a good bit bigger than a standard cello. I no longer ride a school bus. Men no longer tease me over my "man-voice", but instead harass me with "wow, you sound like a phone sex operator!" I truly do love Yo-yo Ma.
And I miss being able to play Bach's Cello Suite no. 1, 2 Allemande beautifully...
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Comments: Read 19 or Add Your Own.
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Monday, February 10th, 2003
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I can't distinguish my dreams from reality anymore.
I'll wake up ignorant of the cognizant machinations of my subconsious and hours later, I'll wonder why I'll feel as if parts of my life weren't there. Did I really get a check in the mail yesterday? Did I really pay off my taxes already? Did those people really go into my bathroom? And the sad part is that I can't remember. I can't remember if these events actually took place in my life or if I had just dreamed of them. And it frustrates me that I can't keep a firm grasp on my threshhold of actuality. Confused. Bewildered. Frustrated. And I slowly start to wake up. Wake up from this dream that's manifested itself into my consious existence. This verisimilitude of life. And then, these feelings of content, happiness, comfort--products of this transient pretense--become replaced with this emptiness, this void which I can't seem to shake. And it saddens me, my reality. It saddens me that I can't include all of which I dream into my verifiable existence.
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, February 5th, 2003
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Tonight, I cried.
It's because I see myself in your words. But not for me.
I want to kiss the same way you do.
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, January 29th, 2003
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For the past week, we've had a wind chill factor of -5(F) to -15(F)... And today it's in the 40~s...
The weather has never felt so warm before... =)
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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Saturday, January 25th, 2003
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I wanted a perfect ending. Now I`ve learned, the hard way, some poems don`t rhyme and some stories don`t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what`s going to happen next.
Delicious ambiguity.
~Gilda Radner
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, January 15th, 2003
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| Time: | 6:57 pm. |
| Music: | Coldplay - Rush of Blood to the Head. |
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I'm still sore from snowboarding. I can't walk, reach, or even change my clothes without careful straining and slow, cautious movements. I feel as if I'm 126 years old and I can't move without some type of pain shooting up my body. But, I'm doing it all again this weekend... =)
And then I think of the days when I used to be active. When I used to go to the gym twice a day and running 5+ miles in a 24 hour period was as much a part of my quotidian schedule as me brushing my teeth. I'd be studying and look up at the clock to read 3:12 blinking and I'd want to go for a run. Of course, no one in their right mind would join me, but I didn't care. It was always better that way. I'd throw on some shoes and run outside to be greeted with an incredibly gentle cool breeze. The dark earthy mulch. The dorm lights across I-81, sparkling like diamonds against a vast blanket of coal... I'd pace myself with my breathing and I'd look up to clear starry skies and reminisce. Just enjoying living. Basking in the loneliness of the dark night. With just myself... My shoes hitting the concrete in regular rythym would somehow metamorphose into the soft padded thud of sleeping grass and squishy mud. The wind, cool and collected, would keep my cheeks chill to the touch. I'd hear the wind tickling new leaves above and I'd suddenly find myself at the lake. Always the lake... Quiet. Peaceful. Soothing. And somehow, no matter what was going on in my life at that time, I could throw off my identity with the greatest of ease... My past, my struggles, my goals... All gone... And I'd sit on the bank and let the wind run through my hair... Caressing my body... And I'd enjoy the plain simple sensual gesture of this moment. My lungs expanding with vitality and my body melting into the world around me. I used to thank God I was alive at these moments. I'd say it out loud. "Thank you, God... Thank you. Thank you so much..."
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Comments: Read 7 or Add Your Own.
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Monday, January 13th, 2003
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Dusty screams, through doors and imaginary floors
"Why can't you miss me?"
Pistol pete removes the final breaths from her unkind and she is shaken
What does this mean in love or in peace?
With you lying next to me
So faithless serene
And she calls to him
Let the waste cross the ancient trails to you
Far out beneath the sorrow clouds
Let them taste the bitter lost mistake of you
Let them cry out through your rusted scars
Alone he roams inside the ordinary catacombs of her waiting
With raven hands she steals and staggers towards her man
Still scorned by his demon
Because he's undone
Become the language of
Disaster and love, vengeance and dust
And she calls to him
Let the waste cross the ancient trails to you
Far out beneath the sorrow clouds
Let them taste the bitter lost mistake of you
Let them cry out through your rusted scars
Dusty screams, through doors and imaginary scenes
Of hurt and teardrop
As he holds her down, in the cold lonely winds
Together again, her inside him
And she calls to him
Let the waste cross the ancient trails to you
Far out beneath the sorrow clouds
Let them taste the bitter lost mistake of you
Let them cry out through your rusted scars
___________________________________________________________________________
Nothing to do with me, but you need to listen to this song... Some of the phrases just jump out at you and you're struck with the simple lyrical beauty of complex emotion hung in limbo through haunting melody. I've enjoyed the Smashing Pumpkins, but its hard to really make out the meaning of the words with Billy Corgan's (ha ha) unique voice running asunder with the music. But recently, I've begun to appreciate their real talent and genius in the pure lyricism of their music. All thanks to Tim of course... =)
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Comments: Read 21 or Add Your Own.
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sad.
happy.