May 15, 2009
May 13, 2009
Love
Love, a difficult topic. I am reading Henry and June, the journal of Anais Nin, and it has awakened a passion in me for an explanation of this state. Love, the reason for art and suicide, depression and ecstasy. What the hell?
I have been grappling with the idea of love for quite a while (and probably will continue to my entire life). There are so many questions I have for/about love. I cannot even begin to cover the ideas that constantly tantalize me in this simple blog post. It would take years of writing, and double that of editing, for me to develop a solid viewpoint. But as long as no one cares, I'll start caressing the idea in this blog, and expand my thoughts as time goes by...
So, questions: Does one really have a soul mate? Many? None? And how can one recover from getting his heart broken? Must he simply move on with the stifling sadness that each day brings, or does a new love wipe out that consuming feeling?
I want to know, I want to dig. I want to be an anthropologist of love, so to speak. And this is why: the ins and outs of this complicated feeling have consumed me since I was sixteen. The majority of my conversations with my girlfriends revolve around love. My emotional and physical states are both slaves to it. People everywhere are inspired and broken by it. It has more power (good and bad) than any other feeling in the world. So here we go- musings at 1am on a Wednesday night.
Personally I don't believe in soul mates. I think you, and you alone, decide with whom you fall in love. I agree that two people need chemistry, but there are so many qualities to love in everyone that I am skeptical of this idea.
I had my heart broken a year ago. And despite every rational belief that I am better off without him, it still hurts incredibly badly. I still have horrible dreams. I still connect things to him automatically. I still feel like my emotional self is in pieces. A whole year and I can't let one day pass without thinking about him. Some days I hate him. Hate him more than words can express. Hate him for cheating on me, hate him for letting me down, hate him for not living up to his potential, hate him for hurting me, hate him for every tear I've shed, hate him for not caring enough to try. Hate him for making me the realize that my depression is very real and I can't ignore it. And other days I hate myself for EXACTLY the same reasons.
I tried everything to sew up my heart. I went to therapy. I started taking pills. I kept a journal. I ate right. I lost weight. And none of that really helped. So how am I alive?
Love crushed me. It wound me into its web and injected itself into my system like poison. Poison that almost killed me until I became reliant upon it. So after it withdrew itself the only way I could stay alive was to keep the poison in my system. It's a bad metaphor I know, but it rings true to my personal experience and most of those around me too.
So I found a new source of poison in a wonderful man. A man who possesses all the qualities that I value. A man that loves me unconditionally, baggage and all. A guy who is so understanding that it kills me to still feel broken. Because I don't want to let him down. He makes me want to be whole, and he holds me when my pieces start falling apart.
Yet here I am, still broken. Everyday I question my life. I wonder if I am doing what I need to to keep my heart healthy. I wonder if I am really depressed, if there are other people out there who feel like there isn't anything left for them to live for one moment, then are ecstatic and motivated the next.
I wonder if love is poison.
I wonder if everything in this world springs from it in one way or another.
I wonder if I'm just tired and I don't make much sense to anyone but myself... Hummm....
May 12, 2009
5 Things I Realized Today (Rainbow Style)
1. Star Trek Movie = Awesome
2. My cat sheds like crazy
3. Breaking into houses is fun
4. Depression is stubborn
5. Writing only happens for me when I'm inspired, damn. I need a muse!
6. Waking up sucks.
2. My cat sheds like crazy
3. Breaking into houses is fun
4. Depression is stubborn
5. Writing only happens for me when I'm inspired, damn. I need a muse!
6. Waking up sucks.
May 8, 2009
A Story
She wanted an escape but she wasn’t sure where to look for it. Her mother had suggested Germany. She thought about that then kicked a hole in her wall. Or did that conversation happen before the hole? It was probably before. But the hole was still in the wall and her dad wasn’t there anymore to fix it. A hole. A cavernous hole. The outline resembled her black converse shoes but lacked the warm, orange comfort they radiated.
She thought back to that day. It was before the hole, before Germany, before the excessive sex, and before April. That day she was in the hospital. Sitting in, well- sitting in a cold chair with a hole in it. A hole, an insignificant hole. How ironic. Was it ironic? What was the definition of irony? She needed a dictionary. She asked for one. They didn’t have one.
“Dying people don’t need anything except flowers and clean sheets.”
Oh.
“They don’t need vocabulary. They are going to a place that’s beyond words.”
Yeah right.
She still didn’t know what she thought about God. Whatever. Ashes to, well- nothing. Okay. Back to… to?
She thought back, was the chair metal? Yeah. Silver, cold, slimy metal. Wait, a chair couldn’t be slimy. It was just vomit her hand was in then. Okay. That was okay. She could wash her hands later. Now was not the time. Her fingers felt around. Her bones felt around. Her mind felt around. And they all concluded that there was definitely a hole in her chair. Wonderful.
She supposed the hole was supposed to be in the chair. Because the chair was metal and her dad had told her that metal doesn’t just spontaneously become porous.
That was back when he had had words, when there was a dictionary nearby.
So the hole was like a design then. No, not like, it was just simply that: a design. Still, why would a chair maker put a hole in his work? But it wasn’t the time for that train of thought so she moved on. She thought about that Emily Dickenson poem, and wished there was a fly to distract her. She wished her life was a stream of consciousness; that technique wasn’t Dickenson’s, it was Faulkner’s. But that’s where her mind had wondered so...
She looked at her lap. There was a journal and a pen: a black, midnight-flowing, word-flowing, incomprehensible pen. It opened its gaping mouth and talked to her, offered her comfort.
No, that’s ridiculous, pens don’t speak. Dads do. Dads need dictionaries, Dads need mouths, Dads need words. Not pens, they don’t need that stuff. Whatever. She could ignore her pen for now.
There were things she should be doing. Right? Her dad was lying on his deathbed and all she could think about was how much she wanted her pen to shut it. Where was that damn dictionary-less nurse? Damnit, focus. There were only seconds left and she knew it. It was supposed to hurt. Or maybe it did. Did it? She couldn’t think. And the heart monitor kept ticking his life away. And the oxygen fed him and it was so loud. SO DAMN LOUD. She couldn’t concentrate. It was too much. It was too fucking much. Help her. GODDAMNIT HELP HER! HELP HIM. FUCK! FUCK!
She thought she was babbling or blubbering. If she had had a dictionary she would have known which word to use. But thinking back maybe she wasn’t doing either.
She looked around. The memory was so real. But she couldn’t hear his heart monitor so yes, she was at home, not at the hospital.
She needed to go. Now. Right fucking now. To school? To Mark’s? Where? Because it wasn’t safe in her house. That fucking hole was taking over. It was eating her life, it was consuming her bed. It had started sucking her in at night. But it would spit her out in the morning so it wasn’t like she was stuck. It was like a Venus Fly Trap with no digestion system. But it wasn’t green. It was black.
She had to focus but she couldn’t. Her mind was in fragments and she was in Germany. Wait, no, she wasn’t. She would feel better if she was in Germany.
“FOCUS,” she told herself, “You are at home . HOME.”
She looked around. She was in the hole. Weird. She had really thought-
She had to get out of bed before the hole decided to spit her out. Because she had to fix it eventually. Without her dad, ya know? She didn’t know a contractor. Plus it couldn’t be that hard. Just put up some drywall and paint it white. Simple, just a patch-up.
She started to laugh, hysterically. HAHAHA! HA! It was mania, and it was wonderful. Pure. So tasty. So perfect. Just bliss. Then down. Down, down, down. Into a deep hole. Wait, that was silly. She couldn’t think about a metaphorical hole if she was in a literal hole. Her face, her beautiful flawless face scrunched up.
OKAY. No more laughing. She swung her feet down and sat upright. Her blankets were everywhere and the drool on her pillow was not yet cold. Her hair was like Medusa’s and her hands could heal. They could.
She stood up.
Inside the hole it was cold. Like marble. She bent down and put her check on the ground. Her tongue seized. Still, she had no need to talk, no need for a dictionary. The hole was round, and safe. The walls were so high. And there were flowers. She could smell them. There was no white light and her dad was still gone and it wasn’t Germany. But, maybe that would all change here. So she lay down and hoped for the daisies to consume her like they had Alice. And they did. And she saw white. And Germany. And her dad.
And she was calm.
And her soul could rest.
She would not kick another hole. But she wouldn’t fix this one either. It belonged to her now. She understood it. She owned this feeling. She could- what did they say- live one day at a time. Yeah. She could.
She thought back to that day. It was before the hole, before Germany, before the excessive sex, and before April. That day she was in the hospital. Sitting in, well- sitting in a cold chair with a hole in it. A hole, an insignificant hole. How ironic. Was it ironic? What was the definition of irony? She needed a dictionary. She asked for one. They didn’t have one.
“Dying people don’t need anything except flowers and clean sheets.”
Oh.
“They don’t need vocabulary. They are going to a place that’s beyond words.”
Yeah right.
She still didn’t know what she thought about God. Whatever. Ashes to, well- nothing. Okay. Back to… to?
She thought back, was the chair metal? Yeah. Silver, cold, slimy metal. Wait, a chair couldn’t be slimy. It was just vomit her hand was in then. Okay. That was okay. She could wash her hands later. Now was not the time. Her fingers felt around. Her bones felt around. Her mind felt around. And they all concluded that there was definitely a hole in her chair. Wonderful.
She supposed the hole was supposed to be in the chair. Because the chair was metal and her dad had told her that metal doesn’t just spontaneously become porous.
That was back when he had had words, when there was a dictionary nearby.
So the hole was like a design then. No, not like, it was just simply that: a design. Still, why would a chair maker put a hole in his work? But it wasn’t the time for that train of thought so she moved on. She thought about that Emily Dickenson poem, and wished there was a fly to distract her. She wished her life was a stream of consciousness; that technique wasn’t Dickenson’s, it was Faulkner’s. But that’s where her mind had wondered so...
She looked at her lap. There was a journal and a pen: a black, midnight-flowing, word-flowing, incomprehensible pen. It opened its gaping mouth and talked to her, offered her comfort.
No, that’s ridiculous, pens don’t speak. Dads do. Dads need dictionaries, Dads need mouths, Dads need words. Not pens, they don’t need that stuff. Whatever. She could ignore her pen for now.
There were things she should be doing. Right? Her dad was lying on his deathbed and all she could think about was how much she wanted her pen to shut it. Where was that damn dictionary-less nurse? Damnit, focus. There were only seconds left and she knew it. It was supposed to hurt. Or maybe it did. Did it? She couldn’t think. And the heart monitor kept ticking his life away. And the oxygen fed him and it was so loud. SO DAMN LOUD. She couldn’t concentrate. It was too much. It was too fucking much. Help her. GODDAMNIT HELP HER! HELP HIM. FUCK! FUCK!
She thought she was babbling or blubbering. If she had had a dictionary she would have known which word to use. But thinking back maybe she wasn’t doing either.
She looked around. The memory was so real. But she couldn’t hear his heart monitor so yes, she was at home, not at the hospital.
She needed to go. Now. Right fucking now. To school? To Mark’s? Where? Because it wasn’t safe in her house. That fucking hole was taking over. It was eating her life, it was consuming her bed. It had started sucking her in at night. But it would spit her out in the morning so it wasn’t like she was stuck. It was like a Venus Fly Trap with no digestion system. But it wasn’t green. It was black.
She had to focus but she couldn’t. Her mind was in fragments and she was in Germany. Wait, no, she wasn’t. She would feel better if she was in Germany.
“FOCUS,” she told herself, “You are at home . HOME.”
She looked around. She was in the hole. Weird. She had really thought-
She had to get out of bed before the hole decided to spit her out. Because she had to fix it eventually. Without her dad, ya know? She didn’t know a contractor. Plus it couldn’t be that hard. Just put up some drywall and paint it white. Simple, just a patch-up.
She started to laugh, hysterically. HAHAHA! HA! It was mania, and it was wonderful. Pure. So tasty. So perfect. Just bliss. Then down. Down, down, down. Into a deep hole. Wait, that was silly. She couldn’t think about a metaphorical hole if she was in a literal hole. Her face, her beautiful flawless face scrunched up.
OKAY. No more laughing. She swung her feet down and sat upright. Her blankets were everywhere and the drool on her pillow was not yet cold. Her hair was like Medusa’s and her hands could heal. They could.
She stood up.
Inside the hole it was cold. Like marble. She bent down and put her check on the ground. Her tongue seized. Still, she had no need to talk, no need for a dictionary. The hole was round, and safe. The walls were so high. And there were flowers. She could smell them. There was no white light and her dad was still gone and it wasn’t Germany. But, maybe that would all change here. So she lay down and hoped for the daisies to consume her like they had Alice. And they did. And she saw white. And Germany. And her dad.
And she was calm.
And her soul could rest.
She would not kick another hole. But she wouldn’t fix this one either. It belonged to her now. She understood it. She owned this feeling. She could- what did they say- live one day at a time. Yeah. She could.
May 7, 2009
Time to Start a Blog
or whatever, right? Non-edited loveliness.... Here we go, enjoy!
For today, a 1 minute haiku:
Hoping for a space
Anything but apathy
Is nothing something?
For today, a 1 minute haiku:
Hoping for a space
Anything but apathy
Is nothing something?
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