| unaction. |
[19 Oct 2006|12:48pm] |
Haven't posted here in quite some time.
Not that I haven't had much to say, though. I guess it's more that I haven't had the time to write it out anywhere, or the energy to pull it all out of my brain. Also, journals like this one end up confusing me every time I have one. Like...what do I do with it? Should I whine and angst about every guy who's cha-chaed through my life lately, or should I go on about how difficult it is to take dictation when one doesn't know shorthand, but one's boss insists she fake it? What's ramble-worthy? In my red hate book, it's a no-holds-barred thunderdome-with-myself say-what-I-mean mindfuck, but here...I have to feel responsible for those few of you who actually read this. And, come to think of it, most of you already know the sort of a-list crap I dodge every day.
My other journal contains the creative dribble that marathons in my head 24/7, but there's a lot more in there that isn't creative in any way.
For example: How am I ever going to get my laundry done by the time Sean gets here? And do I really believe she's shaved her head?
Or: I haven't spoken to my mother in over a week, and I'm uncomfortably upset by that. I actually have quite a bit to say to her, but she'll be in Santa Fe tomorrow with my brother, who's college has drunken bycicle jousting, something I wish we'd attempted at SLC, for bruises or worse. I need my mother's advice, and I need a drink and a bycicle, and I'm pleased that my brother has finally figured out that I'm nearly cool.
I've been spoiled lately, and I'm not used to it.
I revelated (as in: the act of having a revelation) many times in the past three weeks, and I wrote some really fantastic stuff and grew up some and I guess I could sit here and talk about why and how but...it ought to be enough that I did. And maybe I'm not that voyeuristic, yet.
Just wait til I start thinking more about grad school. Then we'll all be in trouble.
|
|
|
[04 Aug 2006|04:14pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
what if god shuffled by? |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
dave matthews -- you never know |
] |
It's only Friday, and this weekend is shaping up to be utterly insane.
Andy. Jimmy.
I am so full of amazement and joy.
and soon, I shall be full of drunken hijinks.
|
|
| unover. |
[01 Aug 2006|04:42pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
double round of crown. |
] |
My temper really astounds me sometimes.
And it's not just that I have one because everybody has one, but mine just comes out of nowhere sometimes, and with such force that I find myself dreaming terrible daydreams before I even know what's happening. Fortunately, I don't throw things or hurt people. But I do, however, glare.
I thought I'd gotten really good at controlling my temper, honestly. And maybe I have. But apparently I'm not so good at keeping that off my face.
Got some upsetting news on Saturday. I guess everyone around me could tell. Some day, I really will learn the secret to not caring. Maybe it's written on a scroll and stuffed into the Holy Grail somewhere. That'd be a bonus.
Can you imagine that?
Maybe you're like Indiana Jones and you go tooling all over the world in search of artifacts and buried treasures and your greatest adventure is to find The Grail. And maybe you follow a treasure map and it leads you to some lost or forgotten jungle island off the coast of Bora Bora and you have to trek through the mountainous rain forest barefoot, with only a machete. (because the afghanis took your hiking boots -- nazis are old news).
So you find the cavernous tomb of the last Knights Templar and you do battle with all bagillion of them because they're only ghosts and you're flesh and you win because Jesus died for your sins and those guys just died for Jesus. And you pick up the Holy Grail...
...and there's a piece of paper shoved into it. Maybe it's even a snot-rag. And upon this ancient piece of boogie-spread fabric there is written the greatest piece of wisdom that mankind has ever known (and ever forgotten somewhere along the line):
Get. Over. It.
And so you do.
And years later you'll be sipping a fine cabernet out of the Holy Grail and loving life, because you've been given the magical power to get the fuck over it and move on.
That'd be kinda cool.
|
|
| unopening. |
[29 Jul 2006|03:29pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
unawake. |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
tired -- k's choice. |
] |
I have a journal. It's a really gorgeous book, gold-leafed, my favorite shade of red, leather-bound. I started writing in it my senior year of college, and every entry begins, "Dear Joey" because my muse's name is Joey. So each entry is sort of a letter to him. To that part of my brain. To myself, but somehow not, and it always feels like I'm confessing when I flip it open and scribble into it.
I hate what's in that book. I purposefully put the thoughts I hate myself for having there; I admit to the things I've hated doing. It's full of all the worst parts of me. That's important, I think, because it feels like I've taken them out of myself and put them somewhere else, somewhere beyond me, so that maybe I've made myself a little bit better after each page I've filled. There's something permanent about ink, I've told Joey -- in a hundred years, it'll all still be there, just a bit faded, a little yellow. So I put these awful parts of me in ink, on paper, because if they stay there forever, maybe they can't climb back into me.
But I don't write in that book about the things I think, day to day.
I was riding the N home the other day and I had my ipod on and A Perfect Circle was playing, and I glanced across the car and saw two people, a boy and a girl, hunched toward each other. The girl was carrying flowers and looked as though she was about to cry, and she was trying to say things that I'm sure she didn't want to, and the boy sat there grim-faced and took it all in. They have a passionate, horrible story in my head. Joey wouldn't care to hear it. But I think it's something amazing -- the emotion on this girl's face, how her nose crinkled and her eyebrows pulled low and her mouth twisted and trembled and she clutched to these flowers like there wasn't anything else in the world, and she stared out the subway car window at absolutely nothing, because it's just blackness in those tunnels, so she must've been staring at herself. At her reflection. And seen everything that I did. I wonder what it must've looked like to her.
There's a man who takes the R home every day at 5:30. He's a security guard somewhere, according to his shirt, and he's overweight and I think kind of crazy. He takes up two seats and always has a diet coke in his hand, and looks around the car at all the people as though there's something absolutely amazing happening every second of the day. I wonder what that must be like -- to always be amazed.
I don't know why I feel the need to write these things down, to remember them. Maybe it's an exercise in detail -- I've been noticing a lot of them lately.
But these things don't belong in my pretty red hate book. And they don't belong in my writing journal. So, I guess, they must belong here.
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
unsinner's journal