Something
6/24/09
Vivid, intense dreams lately
No more and no less stimulating than episodes of well-written
Television shows
Provide me with prompts for self-reflection.
How are we composed?
There are moments, sometimes, and not frequently, that I have trouble believing that I exist. Because something slips from the moment and it is almost as if I am a visitor within my own body, observing life through eyes that are not truly mine. And it takes effort to fall back into place, into now, into that unquestioning state of consciousness that I do, in fact, exist.
Another door has opened. Just as I knew it would.
And I am happy to walk through, happy to move forward.
Time moves so quickly and yet
It is easier to pay attention to the parts of each day that strike me,
That wake me from the routine of function
With forms suddenly curious, momentarily strange and lovely
Like a word repeated over and over until it sounds senseless.
How do we assign meaning?
There is so much that I want to know. And so much more of myself that I want to explore.
And my fear, one of the few I have, is that I will stifle myself. As if remnants of adolescent angst will tinge the freshness of change with acrid hints of a sadness that was once my constant companion. I said long ago that I believed that that sadness would always be a part of me. And now I say that it is difficult not to be sad. I separate my old depression from the new, as if the separation between the world inside my head that I could not escape from was so different from the world around me that I also cannot escape from. But I do not want to escape from either. I simply would like to blur the line that separates them further. I would like to pull in the pieces of the world around me that upset me and show it how it affects me, how it affects many, how much I want to heal it. And I would like to take the pieces of myself and force them out, into art, into words, into sound so that both worlds can confront one another and recognize the lie that categorizes them and accept their scars without the habit to reopening them.
How much is private?
There is a boy who comes into the store regularly for cigarettes. He is beautiful. Tall and thin, with pale skin, dark eyes and hair. He is obviously creative—the way he carries himself says “artist.” He has a girlfriend, so somehow that gives me reason not to attempt conversation. I like looking at him. As if he were a subject to be studied (like so many of the characters I encounter and never really come to know, except through the stories I create around their appearance in my head). These old feelings of inadequacy surface when I see him; I am intimidated because of how attractive I believe he is, and how different our bodies are (silly girl). I am drawn to him. And it is a reminiscent magnetism from a time when I was less sure of myself. I know that it is better for him to remain a fantasy. I’ve felt the frustration of forcing impressions to develop into clearer understandings of who someone is, and I would prefer for him to remain unknown.
How do we know one another?
By touch?
Through conversation?
And laughter?
Through tears and grief?
Every time someone leaves my life—whether by death or disassociation—
I grieve the loss.
Grieving over the living is strange because the person is still out there somewhere,
Carrying on, developing, and I will always only know them for the short time that they were a part of my life, frozen like a photograph taken from one place and one time.
Grieving for the dead is strange because they are also only remembered;
Their impact on our lives is also limited to the moments we had with them. But they are no longer a phonecall away. There was no gradual or official moment when they became unfixed from our lives. So they linger in memory and it is comforting to acknowledge how their energy has seeped into the life that still surrounds us.
When I was younger I had more trouble letting go of the living than of the dead. Though death was not as frequent as friends who faded, it was there. Ugly and unwanted and inconvenient.
How do we help?
Balance.
I thought today that perhaps the reason I fancy the idea of living with a man is simply because I am a woman and a libra. Not everyone puts much stock in astrology. But I find the duality of life both infuriating and reassuring. It seems…complete, living with a man. To have two bodies of the opposite sex present within the walls of a home. Not for the sake of anything other than promoting a physical dynamic. I loved living with a woman, but there was something more empowering about living with a man—wonder why.
The sky was clear tonight. I say tonight although it’s nearly six in the morning because I have not slept yet, so it is still tonight. I stepped out onto Travis’s balcony for a smoke and looked up at the stars. Dots sparkling quietly, specks blinking against the canopy of blackness above the deep green night around me. As I drove home I noticed the morning star, its light glimmering ever so slightly more than the fading spots around it. The hint of the glowing sun just beginning to show against the horizon, shifting the color of night back into the pale blue of morning, drowning out the lights of the departing night.
And once again part of me is reluctant to sleep. Because there is something in this night that I do not want to leave. And so it is with a little sadness that I retire and hope that I can take enough of this moment, the way it has registered, the way it has inspired, the way it has triggered these feelings, with me into tomorrow.
Vivid, intense dreams lately
No more and no less stimulating than episodes of well-written
Television shows
Provide me with prompts for self-reflection.
How are we composed?
There are moments, sometimes, and not frequently, that I have trouble believing that I exist. Because something slips from the moment and it is almost as if I am a visitor within my own body, observing life through eyes that are not truly mine. And it takes effort to fall back into place, into now, into that unquestioning state of consciousness that I do, in fact, exist.
Another door has opened. Just as I knew it would.
And I am happy to walk through, happy to move forward.
Time moves so quickly and yet
It is easier to pay attention to the parts of each day that strike me,
That wake me from the routine of function
With forms suddenly curious, momentarily strange and lovely
Like a word repeated over and over until it sounds senseless.
How do we assign meaning?
There is so much that I want to know. And so much more of myself that I want to explore.
And my fear, one of the few I have, is that I will stifle myself. As if remnants of adolescent angst will tinge the freshness of change with acrid hints of a sadness that was once my constant companion. I said long ago that I believed that that sadness would always be a part of me. And now I say that it is difficult not to be sad. I separate my old depression from the new, as if the separation between the world inside my head that I could not escape from was so different from the world around me that I also cannot escape from. But I do not want to escape from either. I simply would like to blur the line that separates them further. I would like to pull in the pieces of the world around me that upset me and show it how it affects me, how it affects many, how much I want to heal it. And I would like to take the pieces of myself and force them out, into art, into words, into sound so that both worlds can confront one another and recognize the lie that categorizes them and accept their scars without the habit to reopening them.
How much is private?
There is a boy who comes into the store regularly for cigarettes. He is beautiful. Tall and thin, with pale skin, dark eyes and hair. He is obviously creative—the way he carries himself says “artist.” He has a girlfriend, so somehow that gives me reason not to attempt conversation. I like looking at him. As if he were a subject to be studied (like so many of the characters I encounter and never really come to know, except through the stories I create around their appearance in my head). These old feelings of inadequacy surface when I see him; I am intimidated because of how attractive I believe he is, and how different our bodies are (silly girl). I am drawn to him. And it is a reminiscent magnetism from a time when I was less sure of myself. I know that it is better for him to remain a fantasy. I’ve felt the frustration of forcing impressions to develop into clearer understandings of who someone is, and I would prefer for him to remain unknown.
How do we know one another?
By touch?
Through conversation?
And laughter?
Through tears and grief?
Every time someone leaves my life—whether by death or disassociation—
I grieve the loss.
Grieving over the living is strange because the person is still out there somewhere,
Carrying on, developing, and I will always only know them for the short time that they were a part of my life, frozen like a photograph taken from one place and one time.
Grieving for the dead is strange because they are also only remembered;
Their impact on our lives is also limited to the moments we had with them. But they are no longer a phonecall away. There was no gradual or official moment when they became unfixed from our lives. So they linger in memory and it is comforting to acknowledge how their energy has seeped into the life that still surrounds us.
When I was younger I had more trouble letting go of the living than of the dead. Though death was not as frequent as friends who faded, it was there. Ugly and unwanted and inconvenient.
How do we help?
Balance.
I thought today that perhaps the reason I fancy the idea of living with a man is simply because I am a woman and a libra. Not everyone puts much stock in astrology. But I find the duality of life both infuriating and reassuring. It seems…complete, living with a man. To have two bodies of the opposite sex present within the walls of a home. Not for the sake of anything other than promoting a physical dynamic. I loved living with a woman, but there was something more empowering about living with a man—wonder why.
The sky was clear tonight. I say tonight although it’s nearly six in the morning because I have not slept yet, so it is still tonight. I stepped out onto Travis’s balcony for a smoke and looked up at the stars. Dots sparkling quietly, specks blinking against the canopy of blackness above the deep green night around me. As I drove home I noticed the morning star, its light glimmering ever so slightly more than the fading spots around it. The hint of the glowing sun just beginning to show against the horizon, shifting the color of night back into the pale blue of morning, drowning out the lights of the departing night.
And once again part of me is reluctant to sleep. Because there is something in this night that I do not want to leave. And so it is with a little sadness that I retire and hope that I can take enough of this moment, the way it has registered, the way it has inspired, the way it has triggered these feelings, with me into tomorrow.
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