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[24 Nov 2004|05:02pm] |
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I can't remember a time that I felt more torn. Should I stay or should I go? I know they say money can't buy happiness, but a lack of it can be damn frustrating and if it were plentiful-oh how things might be different. I could go to school and really be able to focus my time and energy into it. Community college is feasible, yes, but not without continuing to work at Hope thirty hours a week. Which means homework after eight p.m. and on the weekends. Which means I probably won't do it. Money sucks. But I want it anyway. Like every other split partnership, it would seem, the parting of my flatmate and I (and one third of my california family) is largely money related. My mom called this morning to remind me that I always have a home there, but it's been home to hundred of arguments between us...how long would a year absence hold those habits from kicking back up? It'd be a shock to my system for sure, because it doesn't feel like november here. Suddenly there would be snow and cold and no more weekend trips up to the bay to visit with the Digby. Right now it feels like he's the only person I'd be leaving. Where usually there is a visceral reaction, a black and white, wrong and right...it's just the muddled grey and wishing for more sleep, more rest, more time and more money to figure this all out. Where do I belong?
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[21 Jun 2004|08:23pm] |
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Where there is usually a burning wish, a numb question mark is placed. A sea of faces, one in their lack of familarity. But I know it's the same old shit. I can remember how all this started, but it won't get me back there. Solid ground? I hit facedown and smacking awhile back. I can't write. Ink like mercury, this way or that? Doesn't fucking matter, everything'll flip like a flapjack in five minutes flat. Here comes the firing squad for high tea. Take pleasure in the small decorums amidst a swirling mass of chaotic uncertain blackness. How high a price will I pay for what I've done?
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[08 Jun 2004|11:32am] |
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I dreamt last night of some of our old love. When you'd pull me close slightly trembling and I felt like our stomachs were speaking a secret language of nervousness to one another. The frantic, frustrated kisses. Like my sleep self is saying to my often jaded wakeful one "hold on."
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| even though this loneliness won't leave me alone |
[01 Jun 2004|01:54am] |
I know this feeling. Am I let down? A little. The thought warmed me so. Another small, close knit group of friends. Affection easy to come by and lots of good times had. There is no web here, no safety net. No door I can knock on when I want to go somewhere other than home but feel just as comfortable.
So here I am again, on the other side. Heavy or weightless? Solid. Santa Cruz for another fourteen months? Is there reason enough aside from already being here to stay? A serious appraisal is in order. So far, it's a yes. So the little dream bubble got burst, but there's a real live girl on the couch and a decent job to go to. And then there are little things to look forward to. Train rides and mini roadtrips with former strangers, setting up my own bedroom in a month, soup in a crockpot. Seeing the small town side of Santa Cruz, developing favourite haunts and late night walks. The good in the bye.
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| it's okay, no need to say it |
[20 May 2004|01:52am] |
I called him up as he was adding the yeast to his dandelion wine. We were nervous, former lovers far away. I asked him how he was twice and we both tittered. I wanted to talk to him, but I didn't have much to say. He filled me in on the crazy switchboard of colourful kids, as they've started to trickle home for the summer. Told me of a two a.m. skinny dipping session with a handful of my favourite people last night and then, when I said nothing for about two minutes, ordered "don't cry."
"How's California?"
"Oh, it's okay. I really wish it would rain."
"It's raining here right now."
"Audibly?"
"Yes. Want me to put the phone near the screen?"
"Please."
I sat there, listening to the rain, eyes closed. A series of small crashes and him cursing several times. I smiled. He came back and we talked about the weather. I told him about the new flat and the cafe just down the street I look forward to being a regular at. He promised he'd call, visit, write. We both know he won't. I know now that isn't because he doesn't care. At least now we have distance as an excuse.
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[11 May 2004|11:43pm] |
I wanna sing in a bar, low and silky. My pigtails getting pulled out on the way to the pillow.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung ;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
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[07 May 2004|11:30am] |
I dreamt about Sam last night. Barefoot in his kitchen, cooking simple pasta with Law & Order on in the background. The times he'd look up at me shyly and I felt like his gaze was enveloping me. Cuddling comfortably on the couch, warm and full. Such a smart boy, I always felt such the foolish girl...
How can I dream such a simple, wonderful dream about him? Doesn't all of me know what he did? Now that I'm awake, and I think of him, I can't think of the good times. When he wore sharp grey slacks and a crisp collared shirt to take me out, or the late night phone whispers. I can't picture his eyes as shy and disarming. I just see them above me, blank, dialated and hardly blinking. His pouty, full mouth, capable of a killer smile and some good kisses, in a thin white line. Beautiful fingers and elegant looking wrists, holding my thick and chubby hands down and above my head.
I woke up and it was like it was happening all over again. The worst of it was when it was over, really, after he collapsed atop me and rolled over to his side. He used my orange sweater to wipe himself off. So careless. And then he looked at me, with a small, pitiful smile and said "I love you sawah" in that baby voice of his- ruining the phrase and my name alike.
This was supposed to be cathartic.
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[07 May 2004|02:19am] |
Though they wander, and such wonder full are wont to do, when his eyes lock with mine I can see a secret. If it's written, it's in a language or code I don't comprehend. But I understand.
I'm sorry for all the time I asked too much.
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[01 May 2004|10:24pm] |
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The smell of the pavement just as it starts to rain.
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[30 Apr 2004|05:58pm] |
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Last night we fell asleep with her arm draped around my hip, just a little bit drunk.
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[19 Apr 2004|12:29pm] |
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Closed eyes see the view just beyond the door to my childhood bedroom, as though I were lying in that bed just as sleepless. The precise angle which the bannister cut across, dividing the wallpaper from the woodwork. The flowers didn't match up on the seam. Slurred vision making the twenty two of them turn slowly. Six support beams, a faded green carpet with a brownish stain in the shape of a turtle. Waiting for my father to come home from the graveyard shift at the 7-11, the second job pick up to keep squeaking by. Sometimes he'd catch me on my stroll across the beam, moonlight streaming onto an oversized white cotton nightgown, handed down from my mother. The lacy hem grazing the top of my feet, I imagined myself to be beautiful. He'd pull me down gently, kiss the top of my curly head and each of my eyelids, and shoo me to bed. I'd listen to him undress in the dark, and the two a.m. whispers between the two of them, the sleepy declarations of love, and then I'd drift away.
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| to be continued, or perhaps forgotten |
[12 Apr 2004|09:14pm] |
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I didn't notice it at first, so I couldn't tell you when she started. I think it took her a long time. She started collecting the little notes she'd scribbled on scraps to me and pocketing them on her visits. Or at least, that's how I imagine it. Maybe she was right all along, because I didn't notice these little things. The photos I had of her, hard copy and on the hard drive both, went missing. Comments slipped off my livejournal entries, safely behind the click of an x. A few receipts from when I'd taken her out, when we first met. The only things she let me keep were things she'd bought me outright, a couple articles of clothing and a few books. Though, she even tore the inscription from the pages. I was angry at first. How could she? These things belonged to me. She was thorough, which was unlike her. Usually kind of spacey, impulsive. Always well meaning, though. I was starting to forget what her hair smelled like. Incapable of maintaining anger, I grew sad and bewildered, recounting the tale in my head slowly, turning it over for clues.
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| I can't help you out while she's still around. |
[29 Mar 2004|04:43pm] |
I've been writing this letter in my head. To a former me. An apology, because I have squandered the gifts she gave to us, the beginning. I've scarred her skin and introduced all sorts of toxins into her bloodstream. I've wasted some of her time. I let undeserving boys put their hands on her, and into her heart. I haven't known when to pull us out, keep us safe and when to go all out and after what we deserve. I've fed her when she wasn't hungry and starved her, I've let us lay about for days and days without aim and worked her non stop for stretches without sleep. I should have known better.
There's a selfish little part of me that wants to scream this isn't my fault . If you've got to steel yourself against your own mother, if you've got to steal the parts of her you don't want her to smear- how are you supposed to trust anybody? Feel any other way than secretive, shameful about the storming inside. I'm so tired of always battling it out, the drama- the very things that have annoyed me so about her are here, with me. I want them to pack their things, and I want to start over, for her. She was loved so.
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[27 Mar 2004|01:00pm] |
And the sun feels good, yes. I am overwhelmed, and I couldn't say exactly why. I've done harder, tougher, rougher patches in my life like a good little soldier. And yesterday was good. I scrubbed and straightened the whole house and cooked two good meals and we had a comfortable quietness about us. Night biking, scent scooting off blossoms and invading my nostrils- perhaps my one fully functioning sense just now. Hearing is blocked, eyes can't see,little interest in tasting, and hardly any touching at all. The impermanence a comfort and concern, both. But so seperate. I should go out to the sea, but my body is asking for more sleep.
I admitted last week that I need help. It had been a long time.
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| ten things that make me happy. |
[26 Mar 2004|08:59pm] |
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music |
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this love has taken it's toll on me |
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eating good food (burritos, curry, omlettes, cheeseburgers, burritos)
being touched (circles on skin, hugging, nonchalant and otherwise)
doing things for other people (cooking, taking you out to eat, writing letters)
music (especially live)
hoodies (mmm, hoodie)
blankets (resting, sleeping, cuddling, clean shaven legs)
long car rides. (short ones, too...best if the car feels like a living room)
comfortable silence (being understood)
good conversation (being understood)
woods
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[25 Mar 2004|09:19pm] |
I'd forgotten what this fragility felt like. A phone call freak out, tears freefalling. Followed by hollow sobs and homewishes. Except for I haven't really got one. Food doesn't taste me and the hours slip by unnoticed, unnerved. I exist only to a few, and find it harder and farther to leave the house. Friends? I wouldn't be mine either, for now, I'm not much fun. I can't seem to pull myself out, and I'm afraid of the numbness that surely will be along shortly to swallow me and my tears and say "suck it up" putting me even further inside and away with a smile. I'm sick to my stomach.
I feel so untouchable, unloveable, and more than anything- annoyed with myself for being such a drama queen.
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[25 Mar 2004|09:55am] |
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C'mon girl. Wake up.
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[23 Mar 2004|09:29pm] |
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Entertaining notions of disappearing. Not because you'd miss me, more that I can't stand the thought of you remembering me this way.
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[19 Mar 2004|12:33pm] |
I hate it when I wake up in my clothes, sans one sock. A note on the lid of my computer, requesting the retrieval of some cereal out of the tree from my random, random roomate. Now it's outkast, back on the stoop- bathed in light. I feel a little better yes I do, but now I have to decide what I want to do on top of trying to getting myself out of this impressive fucking mess I'm in. It's a solitary thing, it's lonely and it's liberating and I sure do miss my Nicaa Larricca....
(Do I need to learn how to ask for help? I've conditioned those under any obligation to do so to believe that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Because, you know, I am.)
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[19 Mar 2004|01:12am] |
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Last night I walked drunk with two freckled, wide eyed shy girls (with hoods) and took in the main strip of this new place. I don't have very many freckles. They sort of remind me of stars. I do have a very concentrated area of freckles on my left arm, which I imagine to be a black hole in the freckle universe. But I am pretty wide eyed these days, yes. And shy in a way that's harder to see, the ocean is just a few blocks from here and the sky holds a pinkish orange tint and maybe I should just take a walk. There's an aspect to journalling that is too self involved for me. I wish I stood a chance of running into someone I knew, knew me, we could hold some comfortable silence instead of nervous conversation. Hold me against you. You can't do that on a computer. I like being on the street, late night drunk and dangerous.
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