I've got that feeling, that building intensity, when something's bothering me, something is floating right beneath the surface, and if I just let the words flow, it'll come spilling out.
I tried earlier today, which turned into a repetitive bundle of wreckage and left me frustrated, incomplete.
So here I am again. Nearing 11PM. Sitting in bed. Eating strawberries.
Mind flitting from topic to topic, waiting to land on that one mental flower that will open up for me.
Trying to figure out what I'm trying to remember.
The things we do.
Is that right?
Maybe... it's the things that we want to be, so we engage in actions to convince ourselves that we are the things we do. Something like that.
I see flaming wrecks of men, differing levels of functionality, differing levels of intelligence. There are those men that you know, you know instantly when you walk into their living space, that there is something completely damaged about them.
It isn't the mess or the disregard for presentation.
It's the hollow. It's the faceless furniture, the bare walls, the complete lack of personality imprinted on their space. It's that moment when you walk into a person's apartment and you ask them how long ago they moved in and they tell you they moved in four years ago.
But it looks like they moved in within the last two months.
I was at a man's apartment (surprise!) a few months ago. His bedroom was a mattress and box spring, a couple boxes of paper, and a stack of clothes. He had been living there for a few years.
Gears shift and click together.
He was a successful businessman, well dressed, presentable, very intelligent, MIT grad, if I remember right.
Walked in, looked around, and thought to myself, "Oh, god, you're irrevocably broken."
It's easy for me to identify damage, especially my own kind. It's easy for me to work with others, I love digging through them like a box of broken parts, trying to see how things used to fit together. It's not a mechanical draw, detached and oh so distant, but, I think, more like a child when they see their reflection for the first time. Entranced.
It also makes me want to wrap my body around theirs, breathe together, not just for them, but for me. To talk, to learn, to work together. To discover. To show that a sort of healing is possible. For the both of us. For all of us.
It's important to me.
Even more so is that need to be understood. People think so well of me without perceiving, or at least speaking of, the flaws, that I have trouble accepting their compliments. I feel like I've been idealized for things that I don't deserve, things that I don't do. It's isolating.
One of my dearest friends, who I spoke of several postings ago with his girlfriend who wanted to open their relationship so she could bang this other guy, only sees the positives in me. When I go to him for advice, because he's known me so long, because he's the one friend I have that watched my entire fall from grace and the slow rise back up... he can't provide me with an objective opinion. He's supportive to a fault.
I can tell him anything.
When my mind started breaking after the incidents that happened in December, when I could no longer cope with reality and the things I would have to do, I went to him. I called and told him I needed him, I needed to feel safe, I needed his arms around me and his hands working my tight muscles or I would break something with the tension. And he did everything I asked, letting me cry on him, curled in the fetal position on his lap, then massaged me for a couple of hours, letting me relax for the first time in weeks.
But I can't expect reality from him when he offers his opinion. He sees me too positively. To him, I'm flawless, or close enough that those tiny flaws don't matter.
So we're close... but not with that bond that I would so desire.
Which means when I find those I share values with, those I can relate to... it's a hopeful affirmation of not being alone with my specific torque. The major twists to my life that have caused/allowed me to become who I am, how I am.
That's very important for me.
Day after day I interact with people, constantly feeling outside of everything and everyone. A complete lack of belonging, a lack of community, nothing but myself and my family to call my own.
Family, family is wonderful. But it's also limiting.
I keep trying to find, keep hoping that one day I'll stumble upon a group of people like me. That the dream I had a few months ago might be true in some respects. I still remember walking up the dirt road on the hill, overrun with wild plants and midday sunshine. Just a few people were lazing about. Under trees, on porch swings, in the fields. Wild and damaged, bestial, driven and mistrusting, adapting and surviving... but coming together in one place where there is no outside judgement and social force towards normalcy, one place where they can relax in silent peace, accepted.
Home.
Showing posts with label alone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alone. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Quickest girl in the frying pan...
It seems as though I'm developing an attachment to someone, or at least the beginnings of a potential attachment to someone.
Someone that isn't GV8.
It's a mixed bag.
My sadness at GV8 leaving me, even if it winds up being temporary, has morphed into a mild lack of respect for him, which I believe I've mentioned recently. When he's reminded of me strongly, through events or actions, he forgets his rules... maybe forget isn't the right word. He discards his rules for the pleasure of my company.
Just tosses them straight out.
And something that I valued in him, the first thing that made me stop and realize that maybe he was one of those few men I truly consider mine (in the sense that this type of man belongs to me, fits with me) was his self-control.
A friend of mine mentioned, when I told her how much I admired his self-control, that it was easy to have self-control when you had no rules for yourself.
I'm finding that more and more true.
I miss him, I truly do. It becomes easier each day, a little bit at a time, to not think of him. But when he does stray into my brain, that gutpunch feeling causes pain and mental doubling up around the source, trying to wad the memories of him in foam, box them up and store them in the furthest corner of my attic.
So I don't think of him.
And I try not to be angry. I try not to think that I opened myself to him fully, was willing to bare pieces of myself that I've held tightly so long, to mesh with him without reserve or doubts... and he said no.
Or, at least, not yet.
How can I return to that? How can I go back to him with open arms? Trust is burnt, respect is damaged, I'm shying away from him again, going back to my wild mustang hindbrain: teeth-bared-eyes-rolling-ain't-never-gonna-to-put-a-bridle-on-me-boy.
How can I expect him to even want me back, with his wild nights ahead of him, the club opening up in two weeks, living the life of a playboy, girls falling on him like they do.
How could he ever look back at me and think that he'd be willing to compromise, he'd be willing to give some of it up, so he could love me?
He's told me so often that he isn't relationship material, but he keeps trying with me anyhow.
I pass his tests. I'm the whole package, he says. The whole package, as far as I can tell from our talks, entails a combination of intelligence, drive, family values, confidence, ability to handle money, constant honesty, and insane sexual ability. I think I'm a bit wishy-washy on the drive and the confidence, but he was mostly okay with it.
Even if he did come back, even if he was able to gentle me, heal the damage between us, do I want a life with a man who won't offer monogamy? Who already donated one STD to my life? Who won't give me children? Who constantly changes his mind and his plans, who is never dedicated to one path if another one arises?
I don't know.
I say that often.
At least I admit it, I suppose.
And then this dark horse shows up, and I end up intrigued.
Makes me wonder if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys say when it comes to women. Toss someone who smells like alpha at me and I'm spreading my legs. That's the belief, right?
No, I'm not having sex. I haven't touched anyone since The Bassist. My body feels like begging for touch, for an hour in bed with someone with hard, smooth skin and a strong jaw.
I feel disloyal.
Imagine.
I feel disloyal who a man who never offered me physical loyalty. To a man that said he'd call me when he figured things out... with no set date. It could be next year when my phone rings. To a man I may never actually talk to again.
I feel inconstant, easily attracted, easily distracted.
In my defense, I wasn't looking for it.
In my defense, maybe it's a good thing to remind myself that there are the occasional rare males out there that I can actually connect with, so I'm not so desperately hinged on GV8, thinking that he's the beginning and end of my world and letting that dictate my behavior.
It makes me wonder if I'll be able to respect a man again, or how long it will take for that respect to develop. GV8 pushed the bar so high, so far out of reach when it comes to certain behaviors and desired traits, and then... then he fell.
I remember, one of the last times we were together, he was sitting at his desk, looking at me. I don't know what we were talking about, but he commented that he wondered how long it would be before I was disillusioned with him, until I looked back at him like I do so many other guys who didn't live up to my expectations- not of a partner, but of a person, the same expectations that I hold to myself, constantly striving for, even if I don't meet them.
I have high demands of the people around me. The closer they are to me, the closer I allow them to me, the higher the demands rise. Those expectations aren't financial, or social, they aren't about wardrobe or who drops the most names. They center around honesty, integrity, self-awareness, ability to communicate, lack of external judgement, self-control, ethics, honor, perception, compassion, emotional stability and intelligence.
It's a lot, I know.
I strive towards those traits. I respect those traits.
So I look at myself and wonder why this is happening. If I'm being weak by allowing it to happen, if I'm guarding myself from the pain that GV8 will inflict when he lets me know he can't compromise his life style for me, if I'm giving myself a platform of objective reality, if I'm cheating on my lack of intimacy rule I've set for myself, if I'm using him as a crutch to feel not so alone as I deal with all these changes in my life, if I'm a disloyal and inconstant whore, if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys would say, if it's all about that alpha-related tingle, if GV8 will just add it to his mental list of reasons he should not be with me, if this is really as weak as it sounds.
Lots of ifs.
One instinct.
My brain runs wild and I balk. Rare connection, ability, blessed ability to talk, to discuss ideas, to find someone who will be honest with me with their feedback, no rose-colored glasses, no white knighting. Knowing I'm just as wrecked as them.
What am I going to have to give up with these actions?
Which domino will start the chain of events that will unravel this thread?
How much can be held against me, and how much can I hold against myself?
What am I doing? Creating self-loathing or saving myself?
Probably the former.
So weak. Still so weak.
Someone that isn't GV8.
It's a mixed bag.
My sadness at GV8 leaving me, even if it winds up being temporary, has morphed into a mild lack of respect for him, which I believe I've mentioned recently. When he's reminded of me strongly, through events or actions, he forgets his rules... maybe forget isn't the right word. He discards his rules for the pleasure of my company.
Just tosses them straight out.
And something that I valued in him, the first thing that made me stop and realize that maybe he was one of those few men I truly consider mine (in the sense that this type of man belongs to me, fits with me) was his self-control.
A friend of mine mentioned, when I told her how much I admired his self-control, that it was easy to have self-control when you had no rules for yourself.
I'm finding that more and more true.
I miss him, I truly do. It becomes easier each day, a little bit at a time, to not think of him. But when he does stray into my brain, that gutpunch feeling causes pain and mental doubling up around the source, trying to wad the memories of him in foam, box them up and store them in the furthest corner of my attic.
So I don't think of him.
And I try not to be angry. I try not to think that I opened myself to him fully, was willing to bare pieces of myself that I've held tightly so long, to mesh with him without reserve or doubts... and he said no.
Or, at least, not yet.
How can I return to that? How can I go back to him with open arms? Trust is burnt, respect is damaged, I'm shying away from him again, going back to my wild mustang hindbrain: teeth-bared-eyes-rolling-ain't-never-gonna-to-put-a-bridle-on-me-boy.
How can I expect him to even want me back, with his wild nights ahead of him, the club opening up in two weeks, living the life of a playboy, girls falling on him like they do.
How could he ever look back at me and think that he'd be willing to compromise, he'd be willing to give some of it up, so he could love me?
He's told me so often that he isn't relationship material, but he keeps trying with me anyhow.
I pass his tests. I'm the whole package, he says. The whole package, as far as I can tell from our talks, entails a combination of intelligence, drive, family values, confidence, ability to handle money, constant honesty, and insane sexual ability. I think I'm a bit wishy-washy on the drive and the confidence, but he was mostly okay with it.
Even if he did come back, even if he was able to gentle me, heal the damage between us, do I want a life with a man who won't offer monogamy? Who already donated one STD to my life? Who won't give me children? Who constantly changes his mind and his plans, who is never dedicated to one path if another one arises?
I don't know.
I say that often.
At least I admit it, I suppose.
And then this dark horse shows up, and I end up intrigued.
Makes me wonder if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys say when it comes to women. Toss someone who smells like alpha at me and I'm spreading my legs. That's the belief, right?
No, I'm not having sex. I haven't touched anyone since The Bassist. My body feels like begging for touch, for an hour in bed with someone with hard, smooth skin and a strong jaw.
I feel disloyal.
Imagine.
I feel disloyal who a man who never offered me physical loyalty. To a man that said he'd call me when he figured things out... with no set date. It could be next year when my phone rings. To a man I may never actually talk to again.
I feel inconstant, easily attracted, easily distracted.
In my defense, I wasn't looking for it.
In my defense, maybe it's a good thing to remind myself that there are the occasional rare males out there that I can actually connect with, so I'm not so desperately hinged on GV8, thinking that he's the beginning and end of my world and letting that dictate my behavior.
It makes me wonder if I'll be able to respect a man again, or how long it will take for that respect to develop. GV8 pushed the bar so high, so far out of reach when it comes to certain behaviors and desired traits, and then... then he fell.
I remember, one of the last times we were together, he was sitting at his desk, looking at me. I don't know what we were talking about, but he commented that he wondered how long it would be before I was disillusioned with him, until I looked back at him like I do so many other guys who didn't live up to my expectations- not of a partner, but of a person, the same expectations that I hold to myself, constantly striving for, even if I don't meet them.
I have high demands of the people around me. The closer they are to me, the closer I allow them to me, the higher the demands rise. Those expectations aren't financial, or social, they aren't about wardrobe or who drops the most names. They center around honesty, integrity, self-awareness, ability to communicate, lack of external judgement, self-control, ethics, honor, perception, compassion, emotional stability and intelligence.
It's a lot, I know.
I strive towards those traits. I respect those traits.
So I look at myself and wonder why this is happening. If I'm being weak by allowing it to happen, if I'm guarding myself from the pain that GV8 will inflict when he lets me know he can't compromise his life style for me, if I'm giving myself a platform of objective reality, if I'm cheating on my lack of intimacy rule I've set for myself, if I'm using him as a crutch to feel not so alone as I deal with all these changes in my life, if I'm a disloyal and inconstant whore, if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys would say, if it's all about that alpha-related tingle, if GV8 will just add it to his mental list of reasons he should not be with me, if this is really as weak as it sounds.
Lots of ifs.
One instinct.
My brain runs wild and I balk. Rare connection, ability, blessed ability to talk, to discuss ideas, to find someone who will be honest with me with their feedback, no rose-colored glasses, no white knighting. Knowing I'm just as wrecked as them.
What am I going to have to give up with these actions?
Which domino will start the chain of events that will unravel this thread?
How much can be held against me, and how much can I hold against myself?
What am I doing? Creating self-loathing or saving myself?
Probably the former.
So weak. Still so weak.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Beauty in the breakdown...
I've made a decision.
My heart is fairly bruised.
I fall back on bad habits, if I do not monitor myself, if I do not control myself.
I tend to celebrate the rebound sex as something fun, as something that shows to me I'm stronger than I feel I am, and that I'm desirable.
I don't... admit to pain easily.
I brush up and color the ways I meet men when I'm rebounding and just want that physical contact.
And that is, truly, all I want.
Physical contact. Warm, safe, physical contact, that allows my body to relax and breathe.
I trade sex for this, when I'm down.
I trade sex for the illusion of being desired.
I trade sex for the illusion of understanding.
Sex is, and has been for some time, worthless to me, or rather only of the value of the person I am with. So I trade something of little value for something of value to me. The costs for me are time, gasoline, and sleep.
And I know, I know once the distaste of ever touching another man dissipates, my subconscious will kick in and drive me towards that validation of desire, validation of being female. And I'll rationalize it and try to control it and scuff up a bit, I'm sure.
And then I'll glorify it, I'll convince myself to revel in it.
I really don't want to.
There has to be a healthier way of doing this. I know there is. I know there are several ways of recovering. I just have to find which one works for me.
So I'm going to do my best, dear blog, to be even more honest. To admit to myself when I'm just desperately needing affection, when I'm scrambling to feel desired, when my depression and anxiety are getting the better of me and it's 2AM and I'm scanning Craigslist for a potential bootycall just so I'm not alone for that night.
So I can chase that illusion and temporarily keep myself sane, though, long-term... not so much.
Acknowledgement. Honesty. Awareness.
Pushing towards it. Pushing towards health.
Searching for that core.
I hurt. I'll say it again and again until I feel as though I have found the right combination of words to express the feeling I'm experiencing. That's why I repeat myself so often in my posts, because I feel like I'm not expressing myself right.
I feel that the next three years of my life will likely be without partnership.
It's just a feeling.
I'll be 29. Hopefully with a Master's degree. Hopefully published, somehow, somewhere. Single.
It's strange. I'm a serial monogamist. I'm incredibly desirious of love, of partnership, of having that dominant man in my life to serve, to devote myself to, to grow with.
We were so close, so close to that.
But we stumbled short. If you give everything, almost everything, you have to give, and it doesn't work... well, there's not much else to do.
I'm sitting in bed, under at least six blankets, watching The Holiday, attempting to cheer myself up. Attempting to feel as though there's someone out in the world, someone I might actually ever encounter in this lifetime, that fits me. The navy man across the hall gave me a bag of gummi worms to cheer me up, ordered me to smile if I was to receive them.
It's almost sad, because nearly every time I blindly reach into the bag to pull out two of a very colorful selection, they match. It defies probability.
I'm going to, regretfully, go into work tomorrow. Swallow this down and try to function. I'll succeed in functioning but, christ, I don't want to go in. I don't want to return to my normal life and realize it has changed. Deviating from my usual pattern like this has allowed me to escape from reality. It's a vacation from the pain in my head and heart.
He left me.
I want to stay in bed and cry. I want to call him and have him comfort me. I want to feel his limbs wrapped around me and I want to cling to him.
I wish I was okay.
I wish it did not feel like someone has hollowed me out yet again.
I wish I wasn't so good at covering it up. Because that takes practice and I, I have a lot of practice.
I keep returning to his email, reading it over and over. Not because I want to wallow, but because I am so good at repressing the pain that I need to trigger it to know it's there. Otherwise... I just don't deal.
What am I supposed to say, supposed to do? I want to cry, but since the initial shock, I've been unable to. There are so many things going through my head, images and feelings. Memories and wishes. I wish I felt safe. Safe enough to experience this emotion.
There continues to be that echoing fear that I'm stuck, alone. To be alone. The near-constant stream of unsuitable men in my life that I know are simply there, passing the time. Waiting for the right one. Knowing he's unlikely to come.
This had to happen right before finals week. Had to happen the week of the company party. Had to happen at the beginning of my work day. Had to happen in the middle of the freaking week. Had to happen just before the holidays.
I wish I could skip class tonight.
I wish I could ditch out on this life for a little longer.
My heart is fairly bruised.
I fall back on bad habits, if I do not monitor myself, if I do not control myself.
I tend to celebrate the rebound sex as something fun, as something that shows to me I'm stronger than I feel I am, and that I'm desirable.
I don't... admit to pain easily.
I brush up and color the ways I meet men when I'm rebounding and just want that physical contact.
And that is, truly, all I want.
Physical contact. Warm, safe, physical contact, that allows my body to relax and breathe.
I trade sex for this, when I'm down.
I trade sex for the illusion of being desired.
I trade sex for the illusion of understanding.
Sex is, and has been for some time, worthless to me, or rather only of the value of the person I am with. So I trade something of little value for something of value to me. The costs for me are time, gasoline, and sleep.
And I know, I know once the distaste of ever touching another man dissipates, my subconscious will kick in and drive me towards that validation of desire, validation of being female. And I'll rationalize it and try to control it and scuff up a bit, I'm sure.
And then I'll glorify it, I'll convince myself to revel in it.
I really don't want to.
There has to be a healthier way of doing this. I know there is. I know there are several ways of recovering. I just have to find which one works for me.
So I'm going to do my best, dear blog, to be even more honest. To admit to myself when I'm just desperately needing affection, when I'm scrambling to feel desired, when my depression and anxiety are getting the better of me and it's 2AM and I'm scanning Craigslist for a potential bootycall just so I'm not alone for that night.
So I can chase that illusion and temporarily keep myself sane, though, long-term... not so much.
Acknowledgement. Honesty. Awareness.
Pushing towards it. Pushing towards health.
Searching for that core.
I hurt. I'll say it again and again until I feel as though I have found the right combination of words to express the feeling I'm experiencing. That's why I repeat myself so often in my posts, because I feel like I'm not expressing myself right.
I feel that the next three years of my life will likely be without partnership.
It's just a feeling.
I'll be 29. Hopefully with a Master's degree. Hopefully published, somehow, somewhere. Single.
It's strange. I'm a serial monogamist. I'm incredibly desirious of love, of partnership, of having that dominant man in my life to serve, to devote myself to, to grow with.
We were so close, so close to that.
But we stumbled short. If you give everything, almost everything, you have to give, and it doesn't work... well, there's not much else to do.
I'm sitting in bed, under at least six blankets, watching The Holiday, attempting to cheer myself up. Attempting to feel as though there's someone out in the world, someone I might actually ever encounter in this lifetime, that fits me. The navy man across the hall gave me a bag of gummi worms to cheer me up, ordered me to smile if I was to receive them.
It's almost sad, because nearly every time I blindly reach into the bag to pull out two of a very colorful selection, they match. It defies probability.
I'm going to, regretfully, go into work tomorrow. Swallow this down and try to function. I'll succeed in functioning but, christ, I don't want to go in. I don't want to return to my normal life and realize it has changed. Deviating from my usual pattern like this has allowed me to escape from reality. It's a vacation from the pain in my head and heart.
He left me.
I want to stay in bed and cry. I want to call him and have him comfort me. I want to feel his limbs wrapped around me and I want to cling to him.
I wish I was okay.
I wish it did not feel like someone has hollowed me out yet again.
I wish I wasn't so good at covering it up. Because that takes practice and I, I have a lot of practice.
I keep returning to his email, reading it over and over. Not because I want to wallow, but because I am so good at repressing the pain that I need to trigger it to know it's there. Otherwise... I just don't deal.
What am I supposed to say, supposed to do? I want to cry, but since the initial shock, I've been unable to. There are so many things going through my head, images and feelings. Memories and wishes. I wish I felt safe. Safe enough to experience this emotion.
There continues to be that echoing fear that I'm stuck, alone. To be alone. The near-constant stream of unsuitable men in my life that I know are simply there, passing the time. Waiting for the right one. Knowing he's unlikely to come.
This had to happen right before finals week. Had to happen the week of the company party. Had to happen at the beginning of my work day. Had to happen in the middle of the freaking week. Had to happen just before the holidays.
I wish I could skip class tonight.
I wish I could ditch out on this life for a little longer.
Overwhelmed. Gut-wrenchly overwhelmed. Vomit-inducing levels of tearing emotion ripping through my system with little disregard for basic biological functions.
He left me. He split with me.
Crying. Crying some more. Gravity pulling tears downward as they cling to my skin, leaving shining trails down my face and oh god, oh god it hurts.
Rending. The rending of future, the rending of hope, from my mind, my heart, tossed in with the rest of them, a compost heap to things that will never be, piling up behind my eyes, deposits of shimmering twisted metal wrecks of the accidents of my love life, the accidents of dreams wrecked on this highway inside my skull.
Sirens blaring, social ambulances following my tear tracks, distractions, justifications, rationalizations, theories on why it shouldn't hurt as they run the shovels through the mounds of what things were, assembling it into piles, applying bandages.
It does hurt.
Sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, heart in a sling.
Skeletons of things gone by, adding goliath structure to those that were sacrificed in front of its altar.
The Things We Have Irrevocably Lost.
My ceremonial dance is of sex and sweat, trying to appease the gods of broken hearts, internal validation, superficial-this-does-more-harm-than-good one-night-stands as I take the wrappings of desire and bundle myself against the wind whipping through the hollow in my chest.
My song becomes a scream of the moans I've given to men. To Man. The chorus is a repetitive barking of names I have forgot and things that have gone unforgiven, shoring up the defenses against Men That Have Yet To Come.
It's a monument. It's my monument to hurt and desire, it's my monument to a girl that, according to my mother, is too passionate and gives too myself of herself. They're funeral pyres of innocence, of naivty, of loving without reserve. Breathe in the smoke and prophesize.
You will always be alone.
Crazed oracular ramblings or truth? Fears that echo through my hollow legs. Denial of my constant, overdone romantic nature, something that I'll never be able to kick. A dirty habit, dwelling in daydreams I hide in alleys and dark corners, showing to no one out of shame because I should be harder than this. I should have given up on this.
I should know better.
Better than to leave myself wanting. To leave that opening for that puzzle piece that does not exist because I'm too far outside of the norm, but not far enough to pass into the next social/sexual bellcurve.
Balancing on the tip of a glacier.
Fear-driven words whispering. Knowing I've pushed myself too far. Knowing life would be so much easier if I was ever able to mimic normal.
Bundle up and keen.
Untangle the knots in my stomach, then unweave the threads of the ropes that form them.
This hurts, so I cry.
This hurts, so I withdraw.
This hurts and, for once, I acknowledge the pain.
For once, I will allow myself the time to mourn. Because all I am is what I do. We become the roles we play and I've played being a Dissolved Girl too many times and it is now time to try something new.
Because that obviously isn't working.
He left me. He left me with my burning funeral pyres and the smoke rising out of my eyes, ashes of things I've swallowed under but they still leak out.
I'm a walking ball of relationship debris.
Baggage enough to stuff a 747, my carousel floodeth over.
Aware, but not strong enough to change. Not strong enough to be strong.
Strictly controlled and monitored, 24/7 survelliance through my eyes as I move. But I never swoop in.
Analyze and judge.
I received a bootycall text at 230AM on Saturday night, while I was curled up with GV8. I looked at it Sunday morning and realized that, of things I do, putting up with that is not one of them.
I'm wounded. He drove his knife into me and it clicked and slid along the other blades that I never took out, the ones my flesh has grown over and incorporated into who I am. Living around those things that have been done. My heart adjusts for the lack of space as the weapons of severance trainwreck around it.
I have... so much to give. I am so goddamned passionate and devoted, so freaking loyal and supportive. It makes me ache when I have no one to give these things to, when it loads up inside me and the pressure builds that I have no one to shower my unending love on. That there is no skin at my lips for me to search and trail with my tongue, with my heart.
It hurts.
For the first time, I did something.
For the first time, when a relationship ended and I was left shattered, I took the rest of the day off work. To examine. To mourn. To search.
Since I started dating, whenever something goes south, I've never taken a day off. I've always been told to buck up, suffer through it, distract yourself, responsibilities come first, you can mourn later.
But I never mourn.
I just let myself get distracted by the endless to-do list life presents me. People tell me I wallow in things, and I do, but the wallowing is in my constant analysis, constant judgement. It's never me allowing myself to feel hurt, but distracting myself from the hurt, logic-ing and rationalizing the hurt until I convince myself that it's okay, that I don't feel it anymore.
That it doesn't impact me.
Today, as people were checking up on me, texts, emails, IMs, I found myself saying "Oh well".
To everything. Whenever advice was offered, an apology given, a rationalization, a hug, and then they looked or paused expectantly, the only thing I could say was "Oh well".
Really?
"Oh well"?? Is that all I have? This non-committal conclusion-ish statement? Withdrawing into myself because I can't take the advice and rationalization, because crying, trying not to hit that sobbing level, on the freeway, heading home so I can sit here in bed, wrapped in my grandmother's blanket, stomach growling as I attempt to pretend to others, at least to make them feel not so helpless if not just to stop the advice and rationalizing of why it's "for the best", that it's okay?
Trying to convince myself.
No other words come to my lips as I sit here.
Feeling the tears rolling down my face, that slight drag as the saline attempts to cling but gravity pulls it down, the idea that whenever two things come in physical contact with one another they bond together and then are pulled apart, the stronger surface of the two keeping tiny molecular pieces of the weaker, knowing that the tears are the weaker, so much weaker, and the salt is still on my cheeks even as the liquid dries.
I found myself wanting male contact. Wanting to be pulled into strong arms, strong heat, wide chest, and be comforted.
I found a text message from my sister, asking if I wanted to go shopping today, realizing that that is one of the few times she's ever... done that. Taken care of me. I always take care of her. And how that pushed me into sobbing.
I found myself trying to console myself, trying to feel better, knowing that I had finally jumped that hurdle of opening up. Of being vunerable. Of chasing. Of following my instincts. Of trying to allow myself to trust. Ever.
And I was starting to trust him.
One of three males in my life that I ever started to trust.
Of course, now I trust none of them.
It's not a daddy-issue or an infidelity issue, simply a human issue.
I hurt.
I keep trying to distract myself from this pain. Following my brain down whatever rabbit holes it presents, hoping one will shrink this pain, allow that distance.
Wishing that any rationalization could make this hurt less. Could take the edge off. Wondering if they can. Wondering if I'm simply a failure at this, that I'm too damaged for any real, healthy logic to make sense. To stop the bleeding.
I had fifteen days with him, fifteen days after I left him, fifteen days to show him who I was, how I felt, and what we could be together. Fifteen days to love, to devote, to serve someone worth serving. Fifteen days to cling to threads of hope.
And they were good days. Days full of love and laughter, of sex and cuddling, of walks and lengthy conversations, of discussing dreams.
I should be thankful for them. I should be thankful to myself for finally being willing to be hurt so badly. For taking that step, even knowing that it was entirely likely that I'd simply step into space and tumble down.
They were good days. Days that allowed me time to take pictures of us together.
I wish I could say that I felt this coming. Yes, when I wrote in here, I kept trying to bring myself back to earth, kept trying to keep it realistic. But in my heart, I thought we had made it. In my heart, I thought it was a matter of time until he decided we suited and we'd work all those knots out because he wanted to be with me, he wanted me in his life.
In my heart, I dreamed. In my heart, I erected a circus tent and allowed my fantasies to step into the center ring.
In my heart, he was there.
But I didn't want to be caught off guard. I did not want to be seen being the naively devoted girl to such a man. I wanted to be perceived as strong, as aware, as realistic. I wanted to convince myself of that, as well. If others believed it of me, then maybe I would become that way.
And not a little girl daydreaming at her desk, ignoring the lessons of life and reality.
What good has this done me? In the last seven months, who have I become? In the last fifteen days, what choices have I made? Even though my future with him is gone, he has still impacted who I am going to be.
I want to spend all day in bed, watching movies.
I want to fall into my books, my distractions.
I want to write until my fingers become calloused and the wave of text when this blog is opened by an unsuspecting reader makes them exclaim in shock of the wave of disorganzied mental crap I have tossed up.
I want a man to pretend with. I want those warm arms around me so I can fantasize, just for a moment, that there's someone I can trust, that I can be safe with.
That I'm not just alone.
He left me. He split with me.
Crying. Crying some more. Gravity pulling tears downward as they cling to my skin, leaving shining trails down my face and oh god, oh god it hurts.
Rending. The rending of future, the rending of hope, from my mind, my heart, tossed in with the rest of them, a compost heap to things that will never be, piling up behind my eyes, deposits of shimmering twisted metal wrecks of the accidents of my love life, the accidents of dreams wrecked on this highway inside my skull.
Sirens blaring, social ambulances following my tear tracks, distractions, justifications, rationalizations, theories on why it shouldn't hurt as they run the shovels through the mounds of what things were, assembling it into piles, applying bandages.
It does hurt.
Sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, heart in a sling.
Skeletons of things gone by, adding goliath structure to those that were sacrificed in front of its altar.
The Things We Have Irrevocably Lost.
My ceremonial dance is of sex and sweat, trying to appease the gods of broken hearts, internal validation, superficial-this-does-more-harm-than-good one-night-stands as I take the wrappings of desire and bundle myself against the wind whipping through the hollow in my chest.
My song becomes a scream of the moans I've given to men. To Man. The chorus is a repetitive barking of names I have forgot and things that have gone unforgiven, shoring up the defenses against Men That Have Yet To Come.
It's a monument. It's my monument to hurt and desire, it's my monument to a girl that, according to my mother, is too passionate and gives too myself of herself. They're funeral pyres of innocence, of naivty, of loving without reserve. Breathe in the smoke and prophesize.
You will always be alone.
Crazed oracular ramblings or truth? Fears that echo through my hollow legs. Denial of my constant, overdone romantic nature, something that I'll never be able to kick. A dirty habit, dwelling in daydreams I hide in alleys and dark corners, showing to no one out of shame because I should be harder than this. I should have given up on this.
I should know better.
Better than to leave myself wanting. To leave that opening for that puzzle piece that does not exist because I'm too far outside of the norm, but not far enough to pass into the next social/sexual bellcurve.
Balancing on the tip of a glacier.
Fear-driven words whispering. Knowing I've pushed myself too far. Knowing life would be so much easier if I was ever able to mimic normal.
Bundle up and keen.
Untangle the knots in my stomach, then unweave the threads of the ropes that form them.
This hurts, so I cry.
This hurts, so I withdraw.
This hurts and, for once, I acknowledge the pain.
For once, I will allow myself the time to mourn. Because all I am is what I do. We become the roles we play and I've played being a Dissolved Girl too many times and it is now time to try something new.
Because that obviously isn't working.
He left me. He left me with my burning funeral pyres and the smoke rising out of my eyes, ashes of things I've swallowed under but they still leak out.
I'm a walking ball of relationship debris.
Baggage enough to stuff a 747, my carousel floodeth over.
Aware, but not strong enough to change. Not strong enough to be strong.
Strictly controlled and monitored, 24/7 survelliance through my eyes as I move. But I never swoop in.
Analyze and judge.
I received a bootycall text at 230AM on Saturday night, while I was curled up with GV8. I looked at it Sunday morning and realized that, of things I do, putting up with that is not one of them.
I'm wounded. He drove his knife into me and it clicked and slid along the other blades that I never took out, the ones my flesh has grown over and incorporated into who I am. Living around those things that have been done. My heart adjusts for the lack of space as the weapons of severance trainwreck around it.
I have... so much to give. I am so goddamned passionate and devoted, so freaking loyal and supportive. It makes me ache when I have no one to give these things to, when it loads up inside me and the pressure builds that I have no one to shower my unending love on. That there is no skin at my lips for me to search and trail with my tongue, with my heart.
It hurts.
For the first time, I did something.
For the first time, when a relationship ended and I was left shattered, I took the rest of the day off work. To examine. To mourn. To search.
Since I started dating, whenever something goes south, I've never taken a day off. I've always been told to buck up, suffer through it, distract yourself, responsibilities come first, you can mourn later.
But I never mourn.
I just let myself get distracted by the endless to-do list life presents me. People tell me I wallow in things, and I do, but the wallowing is in my constant analysis, constant judgement. It's never me allowing myself to feel hurt, but distracting myself from the hurt, logic-ing and rationalizing the hurt until I convince myself that it's okay, that I don't feel it anymore.
That it doesn't impact me.
Today, as people were checking up on me, texts, emails, IMs, I found myself saying "Oh well".
To everything. Whenever advice was offered, an apology given, a rationalization, a hug, and then they looked or paused expectantly, the only thing I could say was "Oh well".
Really?
"Oh well"?? Is that all I have? This non-committal conclusion-ish statement? Withdrawing into myself because I can't take the advice and rationalization, because crying, trying not to hit that sobbing level, on the freeway, heading home so I can sit here in bed, wrapped in my grandmother's blanket, stomach growling as I attempt to pretend to others, at least to make them feel not so helpless if not just to stop the advice and rationalizing of why it's "for the best", that it's okay?
Trying to convince myself.
No other words come to my lips as I sit here.
Feeling the tears rolling down my face, that slight drag as the saline attempts to cling but gravity pulls it down, the idea that whenever two things come in physical contact with one another they bond together and then are pulled apart, the stronger surface of the two keeping tiny molecular pieces of the weaker, knowing that the tears are the weaker, so much weaker, and the salt is still on my cheeks even as the liquid dries.
I found myself wanting male contact. Wanting to be pulled into strong arms, strong heat, wide chest, and be comforted.
I found a text message from my sister, asking if I wanted to go shopping today, realizing that that is one of the few times she's ever... done that. Taken care of me. I always take care of her. And how that pushed me into sobbing.
I found myself trying to console myself, trying to feel better, knowing that I had finally jumped that hurdle of opening up. Of being vunerable. Of chasing. Of following my instincts. Of trying to allow myself to trust. Ever.
And I was starting to trust him.
One of three males in my life that I ever started to trust.
Of course, now I trust none of them.
It's not a daddy-issue or an infidelity issue, simply a human issue.
I hurt.
I keep trying to distract myself from this pain. Following my brain down whatever rabbit holes it presents, hoping one will shrink this pain, allow that distance.
Wishing that any rationalization could make this hurt less. Could take the edge off. Wondering if they can. Wondering if I'm simply a failure at this, that I'm too damaged for any real, healthy logic to make sense. To stop the bleeding.
I had fifteen days with him, fifteen days after I left him, fifteen days to show him who I was, how I felt, and what we could be together. Fifteen days to love, to devote, to serve someone worth serving. Fifteen days to cling to threads of hope.
And they were good days. Days full of love and laughter, of sex and cuddling, of walks and lengthy conversations, of discussing dreams.
I should be thankful for them. I should be thankful to myself for finally being willing to be hurt so badly. For taking that step, even knowing that it was entirely likely that I'd simply step into space and tumble down.
They were good days. Days that allowed me time to take pictures of us together.
I wish I could say that I felt this coming. Yes, when I wrote in here, I kept trying to bring myself back to earth, kept trying to keep it realistic. But in my heart, I thought we had made it. In my heart, I thought it was a matter of time until he decided we suited and we'd work all those knots out because he wanted to be with me, he wanted me in his life.
In my heart, I dreamed. In my heart, I erected a circus tent and allowed my fantasies to step into the center ring.
In my heart, he was there.
But I didn't want to be caught off guard. I did not want to be seen being the naively devoted girl to such a man. I wanted to be perceived as strong, as aware, as realistic. I wanted to convince myself of that, as well. If others believed it of me, then maybe I would become that way.
And not a little girl daydreaming at her desk, ignoring the lessons of life and reality.
What good has this done me? In the last seven months, who have I become? In the last fifteen days, what choices have I made? Even though my future with him is gone, he has still impacted who I am going to be.
I want to spend all day in bed, watching movies.
I want to fall into my books, my distractions.
I want to write until my fingers become calloused and the wave of text when this blog is opened by an unsuspecting reader makes them exclaim in shock of the wave of disorganzied mental crap I have tossed up.
I want a man to pretend with. I want those warm arms around me so I can fantasize, just for a moment, that there's someone I can trust, that I can be safe with.
That I'm not just alone.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
My laptop is liable to die at any moment.
Spoke with GV8 on my way to school, mutually drawing things to a close.
It was a good conversation, though both of us were hurting.
Taking the time away that we both need to create that emotional distance, allowing things fading into the past rubbing out the memories and connection we had.
How sad.
How sad for both of us.
No matter what happens, no matter how I grow, I will never lose my need for monogamy.
No matter what happens, no matter how he grows, he will never lose his need for multiple partners.
There is no future. There is no potential that things will shift and enable us to be together again.
So that's the end.
Friends, friends over sound waves, friends through the phone, through texts.
Space and distance.
Time and loss.
Receeding experiences.
I've lost the best lover I've ever had, and the second man I've been able to truly respect.
Then, tonight, I registered for next semester's classes. The impending leaving of my job haunts me, my love and care for my coworkers to be borne to nothingness as I move on.
Unemployed in a recession, so I can go to school full-time.
Without a lover.
With no one to share what is in my head.
Broken-hearted. Ah, there's that word again, "broken".
Bruised-hearted.
Experience distances me. I'm a foreigner in my day to day existence and now, now I want someone I can talk to, someone who can understand this, and that empty void beckons and I know there's only the keyboard.
Spoke with GV8 on my way to school, mutually drawing things to a close.
It was a good conversation, though both of us were hurting.
Taking the time away that we both need to create that emotional distance, allowing things fading into the past rubbing out the memories and connection we had.
How sad.
How sad for both of us.
No matter what happens, no matter how I grow, I will never lose my need for monogamy.
No matter what happens, no matter how he grows, he will never lose his need for multiple partners.
There is no future. There is no potential that things will shift and enable us to be together again.
So that's the end.
Friends, friends over sound waves, friends through the phone, through texts.
Space and distance.
Time and loss.
Receeding experiences.
I've lost the best lover I've ever had, and the second man I've been able to truly respect.
Then, tonight, I registered for next semester's classes. The impending leaving of my job haunts me, my love and care for my coworkers to be borne to nothingness as I move on.
Unemployed in a recession, so I can go to school full-time.
Without a lover.
With no one to share what is in my head.
Broken-hearted. Ah, there's that word again, "broken".
Bruised-hearted.
Experience distances me. I'm a foreigner in my day to day existence and now, now I want someone I can talk to, someone who can understand this, and that empty void beckons and I know there's only the keyboard.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Doesn't hurt me...
I've been without words the last few days, forcing myself to write.
It's not over yet.
Skipping over headstones in heels, flared skirt, red button-up, black hair braided to one side, keeping it off the back of my neck, the heat, the sweat on my back, carrying the coffin, a being a female pall-bearer is somehow appropriate for my life. A whimper escapes my uncles lips from where he sits in his wheelchair, looking at pictures propped up on the casket, their wedding day when he still had use of his body, when he was still a complete man. Red carnations, the family flower, my father left behind by both his parents and now his sister, cut off from his past, from his family, his base.
In the car, me his companion, he tells me of his days at the brink, riding the edge in bars and clubs in Hollywood, the jail time, the arrests, the fights, the drugs, the alcohol, and how desire for my mother made him turn his life into something different.
I tell him that's not allowed. It's too Hollywood. Didn't he know that he had to become dissatisfied with the idyllic existence she provided and take off after a few months to a year, back to his wild, alpha male ways?
I speak at the funeral, for once my own words.
I am the only speaker who does not cry.
It makes me feel like a fake. Everyone else breaks down, and here I am, detached and watching, speaking only because my father asked me to. My sister speaks after me and becomes so very emotional we cannot understand her words through her tears until my mother comes up and holds her hand.
I came close to crying when my mother broke down. I felt the tears building and knew that if I did choose to allow one or two of them to escape, people would assume I was crying for the loss of my aunt, not realizing that I feel not her loss, but the anguish of others, that I would be crying for the pain that my family feels that somehow escapes me on a direct level, but through them comes back to me.
I do not wish them to hurt.
I stay with my father when he is left alone. I gather and refine the edges to ease the organization for my mother.
Sweat rolls down my back.
Small talk, introductions, I fix the unsnapped suspenders on my great uncle.
My back and shoulders are covered in bite-marks from GV8, from the previous night and earlier that morning. Whenever anyone pats my shoulder or back, I hide my wince. I end up looking like a leopard whenever he is done with me.
I watch. I look for ways to help and monitor movement. I sit in the pew with my family (mother-father-sister-sister's boyfriend-me), ankles crossed, and when we pray, I stare forward.
Red carnations, white roses.
My grandfather's obsession with flowers, vegetables, fruits, anything green and growing, stemming from a childhood spent in South Dakota, where very few things grow.
Red carnations, the gifts to my grandmother, of their perfect, devoted love.
We place them on the casket, we toss rose petals and my mother remarks how the wind always picks up whenever this happens, which is true, but I take no meaning from it.
Scattering, a quick flick of the wrist, I stand on my grandmother's grave.
It has been almost two years since she passed, and I think of the days, the hospital visits, the nights spent in the ICU, reading books and talking in whispers, placing the moistened pick sponges on her lips because she could not take in fluids. And now her body is rotting in the earth.
It makes me hope that her idea of heaven is real, that her god exists for her.
Tonight will be spent cleaning and organizing. I need to exercise some control.
I'll think of lips against my neck, the slight touch of someone's breath upon my skin, and warm hands. I will think of the holes we dig and how that simple action can be such an isolator, and of the man that does not exist, the companionship I will seek with my typical naive hope, and the fear that maybe, one day, I'll realize that I am, indeed, alone, and settle for a false relationship with someone that does not suit, but at least enables me to pretend.
It's not over yet.
Skipping over headstones in heels, flared skirt, red button-up, black hair braided to one side, keeping it off the back of my neck, the heat, the sweat on my back, carrying the coffin, a being a female pall-bearer is somehow appropriate for my life. A whimper escapes my uncles lips from where he sits in his wheelchair, looking at pictures propped up on the casket, their wedding day when he still had use of his body, when he was still a complete man. Red carnations, the family flower, my father left behind by both his parents and now his sister, cut off from his past, from his family, his base.
In the car, me his companion, he tells me of his days at the brink, riding the edge in bars and clubs in Hollywood, the jail time, the arrests, the fights, the drugs, the alcohol, and how desire for my mother made him turn his life into something different.
I tell him that's not allowed. It's too Hollywood. Didn't he know that he had to become dissatisfied with the idyllic existence she provided and take off after a few months to a year, back to his wild, alpha male ways?
I speak at the funeral, for once my own words.
I am the only speaker who does not cry.
It makes me feel like a fake. Everyone else breaks down, and here I am, detached and watching, speaking only because my father asked me to. My sister speaks after me and becomes so very emotional we cannot understand her words through her tears until my mother comes up and holds her hand.
I came close to crying when my mother broke down. I felt the tears building and knew that if I did choose to allow one or two of them to escape, people would assume I was crying for the loss of my aunt, not realizing that I feel not her loss, but the anguish of others, that I would be crying for the pain that my family feels that somehow escapes me on a direct level, but through them comes back to me.
I do not wish them to hurt.
I stay with my father when he is left alone. I gather and refine the edges to ease the organization for my mother.
Sweat rolls down my back.
Small talk, introductions, I fix the unsnapped suspenders on my great uncle.
My back and shoulders are covered in bite-marks from GV8, from the previous night and earlier that morning. Whenever anyone pats my shoulder or back, I hide my wince. I end up looking like a leopard whenever he is done with me.
I watch. I look for ways to help and monitor movement. I sit in the pew with my family (mother-father-sister-sister's boyfriend-me), ankles crossed, and when we pray, I stare forward.
Red carnations, white roses.
My grandfather's obsession with flowers, vegetables, fruits, anything green and growing, stemming from a childhood spent in South Dakota, where very few things grow.
Red carnations, the gifts to my grandmother, of their perfect, devoted love.
We place them on the casket, we toss rose petals and my mother remarks how the wind always picks up whenever this happens, which is true, but I take no meaning from it.
Scattering, a quick flick of the wrist, I stand on my grandmother's grave.
It has been almost two years since she passed, and I think of the days, the hospital visits, the nights spent in the ICU, reading books and talking in whispers, placing the moistened pick sponges on her lips because she could not take in fluids. And now her body is rotting in the earth.
It makes me hope that her idea of heaven is real, that her god exists for her.
Tonight will be spent cleaning and organizing. I need to exercise some control.
I'll think of lips against my neck, the slight touch of someone's breath upon my skin, and warm hands. I will think of the holes we dig and how that simple action can be such an isolator, and of the man that does not exist, the companionship I will seek with my typical naive hope, and the fear that maybe, one day, I'll realize that I am, indeed, alone, and settle for a false relationship with someone that does not suit, but at least enables me to pretend.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Where you'll be, I'll go...
Tired again.
Up too late again.
Mulling over gut instincts, mulling over apathy where it should be and where it should not. Mulling over my desire to retreat from this social life I've made for myself, to take a week off, get a hotel somewhere up the coast, and stop living for other people.
Too many pressures.
Trying too hard to maintain social connections, emails piling up, phone calls, texting, schedules to mix, people to be nice to even when I feel like screaming. I set aside time to respond to these things, but it's never enough.
I'm getting snappy and irritable.
I'm looking at this thing with Ev, how we are supposed to be spending the 23rd together in his bed... and I don't want to.
He's an intelligent, attractive man. Not my usual type (blond), but he's desirable to me.
And, right now, I really don't want him in any way, shape, or form.
I have no interest in shacking up with someone else, even if on a monthly basis. Even with a man such as him, who is a genuine nice guy with alpha tendencies.
I just don't see the point.
Sex and some bruises? Bite marks on my shoulders and breasts? I can get that from a number of claimed sources. I don't need a new one.
I don't need another one with a man that will never line up with me. That I will never sync with, that I will never be able to relax and truly be myself with.
I'm done. I'm sick of hooking up with decent, attractive men that I feel nothing with, nothing for, other than the excitement of the experience of a new body. Of having that, again, total disconnect between us, one that is only hidden by my strivings to act as though it is not there.
Wonder if they ever know?
The act, the words, the laughter, the temporary genuine enjoyment of time spent. And then you separate, and they fade from mind because they're nothing in your head, nothing in your heart, and you knew that, knew it from the moment you set eyes on them, but you wanted them anyhow, enjoyed them anyhow, so you took and pleasured and eventually they'll meet someone (because you never will) and totter off while you wish them luck in love, without bitterness, without anger, just knowing that you'll have to find another next time you feel the need.
Yes.
That's it. That's all it's going to be.
Draw more and more into yourself.
Ring on your finger, nose buried in a book, filling your days with work, with research, with improving, so that maybe, one day, you'll reach your own goals and you won't feel so... incomplete? No. So you won't constantly look down on yourself for never achieving what you should have, never being what you could have. And maybe that'll enable you to meet someone who actually works for you.
Or maybe not.
With all the books you read, places you go, people you meet, degrees acquired, things learned, what are you going to do?
Watch that man go by you. Maybe a moment in grocery store, you look up and your body jolts, your eyes meet, and you know that he's like you. You see the expression of surprise on his face as he stares back.
And you keep walking.
Dive back into a world where other people equate to a lack of relaxation, where friends, no matter how close, mean behavioral control because you're always supposed to be that one on top of everything, that one who swishes her hips and walks down the line. Your male friends love you because you're one of them. Because they can say anything to you and you never even think about judging them. They think you're so bad ass, one of the guys as you sit with them, pointing out the hotties as they walk by.
And you wonder if this is who you are.
Until you get away again, until you center. You point due north until another force takes you for a spin, alters your directions temporarily.
You're happier alone, but sometimes people summon. The lights, the dancing, the observations and humor around you are tempting and you come out, get embroiled, and then you have to extracate yourself again.
How many times do you do this before socializing loses all appeal? Until the idea of spending time around other people causes your gag reflex to engage because you simply can't stomach the thought of putting on another socially acceptable show. Being desired starts to lose meaning, starts to lose worth, and now you engage in it simply to cause others issue.
It's not a burn out, but it's a definite need for space.
How much longer am I going to do this?
Up too late again.
Mulling over gut instincts, mulling over apathy where it should be and where it should not. Mulling over my desire to retreat from this social life I've made for myself, to take a week off, get a hotel somewhere up the coast, and stop living for other people.
Too many pressures.
Trying too hard to maintain social connections, emails piling up, phone calls, texting, schedules to mix, people to be nice to even when I feel like screaming. I set aside time to respond to these things, but it's never enough.
I'm getting snappy and irritable.
I'm looking at this thing with Ev, how we are supposed to be spending the 23rd together in his bed... and I don't want to.
He's an intelligent, attractive man. Not my usual type (blond), but he's desirable to me.
And, right now, I really don't want him in any way, shape, or form.
I have no interest in shacking up with someone else, even if on a monthly basis. Even with a man such as him, who is a genuine nice guy with alpha tendencies.
I just don't see the point.
Sex and some bruises? Bite marks on my shoulders and breasts? I can get that from a number of claimed sources. I don't need a new one.
I don't need another one with a man that will never line up with me. That I will never sync with, that I will never be able to relax and truly be myself with.
I'm done. I'm sick of hooking up with decent, attractive men that I feel nothing with, nothing for, other than the excitement of the experience of a new body. Of having that, again, total disconnect between us, one that is only hidden by my strivings to act as though it is not there.
Wonder if they ever know?
The act, the words, the laughter, the temporary genuine enjoyment of time spent. And then you separate, and they fade from mind because they're nothing in your head, nothing in your heart, and you knew that, knew it from the moment you set eyes on them, but you wanted them anyhow, enjoyed them anyhow, so you took and pleasured and eventually they'll meet someone (because you never will) and totter off while you wish them luck in love, without bitterness, without anger, just knowing that you'll have to find another next time you feel the need.
Yes.
That's it. That's all it's going to be.
Draw more and more into yourself.
Ring on your finger, nose buried in a book, filling your days with work, with research, with improving, so that maybe, one day, you'll reach your own goals and you won't feel so... incomplete? No. So you won't constantly look down on yourself for never achieving what you should have, never being what you could have. And maybe that'll enable you to meet someone who actually works for you.
Or maybe not.
With all the books you read, places you go, people you meet, degrees acquired, things learned, what are you going to do?
Watch that man go by you. Maybe a moment in grocery store, you look up and your body jolts, your eyes meet, and you know that he's like you. You see the expression of surprise on his face as he stares back.
And you keep walking.
Dive back into a world where other people equate to a lack of relaxation, where friends, no matter how close, mean behavioral control because you're always supposed to be that one on top of everything, that one who swishes her hips and walks down the line. Your male friends love you because you're one of them. Because they can say anything to you and you never even think about judging them. They think you're so bad ass, one of the guys as you sit with them, pointing out the hotties as they walk by.
And you wonder if this is who you are.
Until you get away again, until you center. You point due north until another force takes you for a spin, alters your directions temporarily.
You're happier alone, but sometimes people summon. The lights, the dancing, the observations and humor around you are tempting and you come out, get embroiled, and then you have to extracate yourself again.
How many times do you do this before socializing loses all appeal? Until the idea of spending time around other people causes your gag reflex to engage because you simply can't stomach the thought of putting on another socially acceptable show. Being desired starts to lose meaning, starts to lose worth, and now you engage in it simply to cause others issue.
It's not a burn out, but it's a definite need for space.
How much longer am I going to do this?
Monday, August 10, 2009
Backstabber, backstabber, backstabber...
I'm not actually listening to the Dresden Dolls right now. But, somehow, that song is stuck in my head, and has been since yesterday. Maybe a sign?
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
I'm frustrated. I feel stoppered up, words just bottled inside me and I wish I had someone in my life that I could talk to without having to constantly explain myself or my though processes. I usually don't mind explaining things to my friends, my odd twists of logic, my survival/strength-based worldview. It allows me to clarify things for myself, communicating that to other people, and get feedback, input, general critique that I can toss around in my head for days.
But, as I've mentioned, I've been talked at. And talked at some more. And when I finally was able to talk a little, with C on the way up to the club on Saturday, I felt like I was only addressing surface issues.
I don't feel lonely, just, as per the usual, alone.
I do have great friends, wonderful, loyal friends that I love spending time with. But it doesn't take too long for me to wear out, for me to need so desperately to get away and get back to myself, be alone so I can relax. So I can be a little more me.
It's why I love driving so much. Racing along the freeways by myself, 90 miles an hour, listening to whatever suits my mood, thinking, enjoying the extension of myself in car form, knowing that I shouldn't take corners so hard, shouldn't whip myself around on onramps, but I do it anyhow and eat through my tires much too fast.
That was one of the things that attracted GV8 to me when we met. He followed me back to the place I was crashing at, and as soon as we parked, got out, "I love the way you drive... so confident."
And I am.
A few months ago, someone slammed into my driver's side going much too fast for the intersection we were in. I saw him coming, saw that his car would physically impact my body, adjusted quickly so that he would hit the backseat door instead of mine, and then controlled the spinout to avoid the traffic around me, finding a curb to slam into to stop my car.
No panic, no screaming, no pants-wetting.
You see the situation and you handle it.
$5100 later, my driver's side backseat door was no longer concave.
If I had freaked, if I had allowed myself any panic, things would have gone much more poorly.
I still remember feeling the spin, seeing the cars to my right, knowing that the man who hit me would drive me into them if I did not do something, gas the car, go into the 180, check over my right shoulder, hair flying, see the curb, bring the car around, nail it, not even bothering to think about what would happen if the speed of my car would tip me over and onto my passenger side. Just a knowledge that that curb had to stop me, and if it didn't, if I tipped, I'd handle it.
While scary, I was thrilled. Thrilled to know that my instincts, my ability to keep calm in emergencies, and my father's constantly drilling on driving manuevers when I was younger... it worked. It came together.
Mario Kart probably helped some. Just sayin'.
Anyhow, away from driving, back towards original goal.
Well, there's not a goal set. But back towards topic declared.
I'm lacking in people like me. There's the one girl, my friend, and I do need to visit her. And there's one or two people I've seen in the blogosphere where I blinked and said to myself, "Yeah, they got it."
It makes me remember that dream I had a few months back. I was hanging out with friends in someone's apartment, and Hardwood Floors walked in with some chick, some beautiful girl with my coloring, but different body, and so young and naive.
I was hurt but I didn't show it. I congratulated him on finding a girlfriend, he hugged me, and I went back to talking to people.
But then someone started fighting and I left.
I went down the stairs of their apartment, to the ground floor, and started walking. Directionless, whatever caught my eye, until I saw some yellow flowers on a large bush peeking out from behind someone's house. I walked up their driveway and found a wide dirt path, which I followed. The dirt path continued up a slight hill, and suddenly I was in the country, a few old southern-style houses around me, and so much plantlife. I walked under something resembling a willow, its lean branches hanging down in front of me, filtering the sunlight.
I felt so at peace.
And then I looked around.
There were people. There were these wonderful, bestial people. Men and women lounging about, all of them sorts of predators, people who engineer, people who hunt, who are wild and damaged. But the area we were in was a sort of peace zone, where none of them had to perform, had to attack, had to be doing anything other than rest, recharge, and stop hunting for whatever they sought.
I feel like I've started writing some hippie blog entry. Bah.
As I stood there, watching and at ease, Hardwood Floors came up the path behind me. Told me that he ditched the girl, that she would never understand him like I did, that he'd constantly have to hide his nature from her, that he'd never feel happy and complete, never feel accepted, never let down his guard in case he frightened her.
I believe I told him, "I know."
Heavy petting ensued.
And I woke up.
It's hard to... be with other people sometimes. It becomes this mismash of who you are, who people see you as, and who you want to be seen as. I try so hard to give people a more complete picture of me, but I keep getting pigeon-holed, I keep feeling as though only one side of me is there and that, as more and more people in life deny the other, maybe the other doesn't exist.
Maybe it's just in my head.
People who know me... I'm always this strong, confident, mildly confused woman, sexually confident to an extreme, comfortable in my skin, intelligent, and gentle. Introspective, introverted at times. Cautious until comfortable, it has been said.
But they weren't there when I played with Jake. They weren't there when I flaunted my other lover in front of him, when I played on his weak points and drove him into a frenzy of self-loathing and tears, until he was repeatedly slamming his skull into the hood of his car because he was not worthy of me, because I made him feel worthless with my words and actions. Because I could. Because I wanted to.
Even after that, he begged to be allowed to stay the night, just to cuddle with me, just to be with me.
Even after that, he proposed.
I was 17.
I got so high off of that night, off of hurting him, off of getting him to hurt himself.
I was an angry, disconnected child.
Now I'm a disconnected adult. I think that, maybe, I compensate now for all the damage I did to others in the past, by being so nice all the time. Atonement for an atheist, how amusing.
It's still there, though. That need to hurt, that need to self-destruct. It's no where near as strong as it used to be, not even close. But it's there.
I try to tell people this. Not the stories. But when someone tells me how wonderful and nice I am, when I overhear someone telling another how great I am, how low-drama and non-crazy I am... I have to stop. I have to wonder what they're missing. I have to wonder what makes it so when I see Wolfboy and he sees me, we recognize each other. That first night I met him, coming up on eight years, I knew him to his core. He still can't get away with lying to me and he hates that fact.
I'm going to try to get used to this. The alone. Not having a person I can sit down with and talk, compare notes, relax. Someone I don't have to pretend for.
The first step to all this is becoming alone.
A week ago, I started wearing what looks like a simple wedding ring. It was a gift from my parents, a small sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. Very minimal, just my style, should I have wanted a ring with jewels in it. I'm more a plain band kinda girl, but... eh.
But I've been wearing it. The nice guys who would never mess with a married or engaged woman keep their distance. The assholes who would... they're easy enough to deal with. The concern here is not the assholes, the ones who do not respect other's bonds, but the men who actually would. Someone with my retardly moral code, someone worth dating.
I'm distancing myself. Even thinking about stopping things with Ev. I am going to go see The Bassist's band play this week, and we're going to curl up and watch a movie on Sunday, but I've already resolved myself to a lack of interest.
September 5th. A year of singledom.
Once I am truly good being alone, able to control and discuss with myself my own internal drama, confident in myself, knowing that I need no one to make me happy, to validate me, then I'll know that I'm ready for a relationship.
Until then, this ring stays on and I continue to do what I am so good at: keep my heart out of the game.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Will you light the lamp, dear?
As I was driving into work this morning, I was thinking.
Which is nothing new. I do it entirely too much.
And then the "durrrrrr" realization hit me:
The reason why I act like I do, with other people, where I create a space where they will not be judged and they will be, as much as I can, understood, is because I so desire that space from other people.
My very "seduction style" of the masculine dandy, one that I engaged in before I ever read The Art of Seduction, came about because I tend to think like a man. Well, more like a man than most girls. And that enabled me to wiggle my way in past all the shields and acts that men put up for women in order to be desirable.
I mean, sit me down with a guy, and he will generally start pouring himself out to me. I hung out with a guy a few months ago who had no problem opening up and detailing his embarassed/amused love of prostitutes to me, and the experiences in massage parlors, all the while whispering to me "But don't bring this up to -----" (which was a friend of mine he had been hitting on).
He couldn't tell her. He couldn't be himself. He didn't feel comfortable in revealing those parts of himself to a potential mate/sex-partner. So we were at a concert, and he was leaning over, talking about the strippers he's fucked, the best massage parlors in LA, his months and months of prostitutes, and every time my friend came back, he'd switch topics immediately and I'd be left giggling like an idiot watching him change gears.
Heartbreak, embarassing sex moments, self doubts, loss of virginity, masturbatory experiences, prostitutes/massage parlors, incest, bestiality, childhood crushes, general sexcapades, drunken tomfoolery, homosexual experiences, bizarre sexual fantasies, I've heard them all.
And you'd think I would have realized by now, why I was doing this.
I mean, when I was first entering the world of sex, I knew that if I wanted to please my partner, I had to follow his lead. Touch him like he touched me, kiss him like he kissed me, because we do to others what we want for ourselves. Rough, soft, lots of tongue, nails, teeth, groping, you mirror as much as you can to become in tune with your partner's desires.
And I did not stop to think that this could apply to me on more than a sexual level.
Even though I'm more than aware that people, in general, give what they want to receive (or give what they think will get them what they want to receive), even on a social level.
I offer what I do, to the men I do, because I want it so badly for myself.
And I want someone to recognize that and provide it for me. Unfortunately, understanding has to come from another person. I cannot provide it for myself, except in daydreams and fantasies involving fictional shadowmen.
So there you go.
Which is nothing new. I do it entirely too much.
And then the "durrrrrr" realization hit me:
The reason why I act like I do, with other people, where I create a space where they will not be judged and they will be, as much as I can, understood, is because I so desire that space from other people.
My very "seduction style" of the masculine dandy, one that I engaged in before I ever read The Art of Seduction, came about because I tend to think like a man. Well, more like a man than most girls. And that enabled me to wiggle my way in past all the shields and acts that men put up for women in order to be desirable.
I mean, sit me down with a guy, and he will generally start pouring himself out to me. I hung out with a guy a few months ago who had no problem opening up and detailing his embarassed/amused love of prostitutes to me, and the experiences in massage parlors, all the while whispering to me "But don't bring this up to -----" (which was a friend of mine he had been hitting on).
He couldn't tell her. He couldn't be himself. He didn't feel comfortable in revealing those parts of himself to a potential mate/sex-partner. So we were at a concert, and he was leaning over, talking about the strippers he's fucked, the best massage parlors in LA, his months and months of prostitutes, and every time my friend came back, he'd switch topics immediately and I'd be left giggling like an idiot watching him change gears.
Heartbreak, embarassing sex moments, self doubts, loss of virginity, masturbatory experiences, prostitutes/massage parlors, incest, bestiality, childhood crushes, general sexcapades, drunken tomfoolery, homosexual experiences, bizarre sexual fantasies, I've heard them all.
And you'd think I would have realized by now, why I was doing this.
I mean, when I was first entering the world of sex, I knew that if I wanted to please my partner, I had to follow his lead. Touch him like he touched me, kiss him like he kissed me, because we do to others what we want for ourselves. Rough, soft, lots of tongue, nails, teeth, groping, you mirror as much as you can to become in tune with your partner's desires.
And I did not stop to think that this could apply to me on more than a sexual level.
Even though I'm more than aware that people, in general, give what they want to receive (or give what they think will get them what they want to receive), even on a social level.
I offer what I do, to the men I do, because I want it so badly for myself.
And I want someone to recognize that and provide it for me. Unfortunately, understanding has to come from another person. I cannot provide it for myself, except in daydreams and fantasies involving fictional shadowmen.
So there you go.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Apply some pressure...
I caught myself staring at a rather happening bar earlier tonight, from across the parking lot.
I wanted to go in, join the fun, find a guy I wanted and take him home.
But that's not my scene.
I'll never be the bar-type.
What's the point? I don't drink, and I don't appreciate people who get drunk. Tipsy, even. I'm significantly more attracted to a man when he tells me he does not drink than when I encounter one that I find attractive that happens to be holding a shot of something.
I wanted to go in, I wanted to be squeezed by the crowd until, maybe, I found that one guy whose goal was not to get drunk, one with more than half a brain, and snag him.
But I know that... I don't fit.
Not in that bar, anyway.
There I am, always at this off angle and I swear that people can tell with just a glance that I'm not quite meshing.
It's probably my body language.
And the fact that I don't dress like a bar-girl.
Short skirts? Ha. Overly bright colors, double ha. Bangles and chunky bracelets, necklaces hitting my belly button, a small clutch purse that I must cling to the entire night? Obnoxiously high heels that make the typical girl look like she's trying to mimic a t-rex? Oh, and don't forget the tanned skin and blonde hair. Thank goodness I'm not in a beach city anymore. A cadre of fellow women? Ah, I've got a rant brewing about fellow women, not even on this topic.
I dress simply. I like clean, elegant lines and dark colors. I prefer my wardrobe to be either casual, comfortable, and simple or sensual and smooth. If I'm doing the latter, I easily find a way to work in something with a bit of a sexual edge without going over the top. I dye my blonde hair to a very dark, reddish brunette, and do not expose my skin to the sun if I can help it because it's healthier that way.
Part of me is afraid that if I walked into a "happening" bar like that one, I'd be stared at. That because I so strongly do not fit the mold of the typical female patron, I would be an object of derision. That no matter how intelligent or sincere I am, everything that I am would be the opposite of acceptable, the opposite of desirable.
I know that if I had a wingman (or wingwoman), that I could slide in there no problem.
But it is rare that I do anything with a partner. I prefer to work alone, without constraint, without having to monitor another person, to make sure we're on the same wave length. If SFPlayboy was down here, I'd be golden. He's working his bar scene, apparently, like a very successful madman.
Me? I like day-game. When I go out at night, unless it is to a party, one of the last things on my mind is men. I'm out to have fun, out to dance, to see friends. Occasionally I'll decide that I'm horny, I want someone, and eventually I may stumble across someone that meets my standards of attractiveness (which are more social/mental than physical) and go back to his place for a romp.
So I thought about it. Thought about walking in there, wedging myself between people, ordering a freaking Shirley Temple so I at least look like I might be drinking some random girly frou frou drink with alcoholic content.
I couldn't do it. I could not gather to balls to go by myself into a crowded bar that I've yet to visit and see what there was to see. I lost my nerve completely, and I was tired enough that I did not bother trying to talk myself into doing it just because it made me so anxious, which is what I usually do.
Instead, I went out to a rather late dinner with some friends and came home. Yes, I'm horny. I probably will be for the next couple of days. I haven't had sex in two weeks, after getting quickly used to having multiple marathon sessions each weekend. My body is aching with need, and I'm sitting at home with my laptop because I'm too tired to bother to do anything about it.
Mmm porn.
Anyhow.
Tomorrow, family event, and propping myself up at some coffee shop to study. Also need to change the oil in my car. Sunday, date/hang-out (not sure which at this point, happy with either) with the bassist of a band that is rapidly becoming one of my favorites.
Also went thrift store shopping at my favorite little place. Found a gorgeous Calvin Klein dress with a Mandarin collar that made me swoon for $18. And it fit. Mostly. My chest was, as per usual, too large. I think if I switch out to a more flattening bra, it'll be okay. Snagged a workshirt that hugs my waist and chest like whoa, looks brand new, and a sheer dark red top that'll look fantastic over a black spaghetti strap I have. The top also did not fit across my chest. Sigh. Fortunately, the black tank has a mildly minimizing effect.
I know, my shopping is thrilling. I'm just happy that I ended up with two high-quality tops and a CK dress for $32 dollars and they don't smell like old people, which is a problem for a lot of thrift stores. No matter how much you wash stuff from Salvation Army, it'll always smell like grandma. I think I'm going to make a trip to that store every two weeks. I really need to buff up my wardrobe.
I wanted to go in, join the fun, find a guy I wanted and take him home.
But that's not my scene.
I'll never be the bar-type.
What's the point? I don't drink, and I don't appreciate people who get drunk. Tipsy, even. I'm significantly more attracted to a man when he tells me he does not drink than when I encounter one that I find attractive that happens to be holding a shot of something.
I wanted to go in, I wanted to be squeezed by the crowd until, maybe, I found that one guy whose goal was not to get drunk, one with more than half a brain, and snag him.
But I know that... I don't fit.
Not in that bar, anyway.
There I am, always at this off angle and I swear that people can tell with just a glance that I'm not quite meshing.
It's probably my body language.
And the fact that I don't dress like a bar-girl.
Short skirts? Ha. Overly bright colors, double ha. Bangles and chunky bracelets, necklaces hitting my belly button, a small clutch purse that I must cling to the entire night? Obnoxiously high heels that make the typical girl look like she's trying to mimic a t-rex? Oh, and don't forget the tanned skin and blonde hair. Thank goodness I'm not in a beach city anymore. A cadre of fellow women? Ah, I've got a rant brewing about fellow women, not even on this topic.
I dress simply. I like clean, elegant lines and dark colors. I prefer my wardrobe to be either casual, comfortable, and simple or sensual and smooth. If I'm doing the latter, I easily find a way to work in something with a bit of a sexual edge without going over the top. I dye my blonde hair to a very dark, reddish brunette, and do not expose my skin to the sun if I can help it because it's healthier that way.
Part of me is afraid that if I walked into a "happening" bar like that one, I'd be stared at. That because I so strongly do not fit the mold of the typical female patron, I would be an object of derision. That no matter how intelligent or sincere I am, everything that I am would be the opposite of acceptable, the opposite of desirable.
I know that if I had a wingman (or wingwoman), that I could slide in there no problem.
But it is rare that I do anything with a partner. I prefer to work alone, without constraint, without having to monitor another person, to make sure we're on the same wave length. If SFPlayboy was down here, I'd be golden. He's working his bar scene, apparently, like a very successful madman.
Me? I like day-game. When I go out at night, unless it is to a party, one of the last things on my mind is men. I'm out to have fun, out to dance, to see friends. Occasionally I'll decide that I'm horny, I want someone, and eventually I may stumble across someone that meets my standards of attractiveness (which are more social/mental than physical) and go back to his place for a romp.
So I thought about it. Thought about walking in there, wedging myself between people, ordering a freaking Shirley Temple so I at least look like I might be drinking some random girly frou frou drink with alcoholic content.
I couldn't do it. I could not gather to balls to go by myself into a crowded bar that I've yet to visit and see what there was to see. I lost my nerve completely, and I was tired enough that I did not bother trying to talk myself into doing it just because it made me so anxious, which is what I usually do.
Instead, I went out to a rather late dinner with some friends and came home. Yes, I'm horny. I probably will be for the next couple of days. I haven't had sex in two weeks, after getting quickly used to having multiple marathon sessions each weekend. My body is aching with need, and I'm sitting at home with my laptop because I'm too tired to bother to do anything about it.
Mmm porn.
Anyhow.
Tomorrow, family event, and propping myself up at some coffee shop to study. Also need to change the oil in my car. Sunday, date/hang-out (not sure which at this point, happy with either) with the bassist of a band that is rapidly becoming one of my favorites.
Also went thrift store shopping at my favorite little place. Found a gorgeous Calvin Klein dress with a Mandarin collar that made me swoon for $18. And it fit. Mostly. My chest was, as per usual, too large. I think if I switch out to a more flattening bra, it'll be okay. Snagged a workshirt that hugs my waist and chest like whoa, looks brand new, and a sheer dark red top that'll look fantastic over a black spaghetti strap I have. The top also did not fit across my chest. Sigh. Fortunately, the black tank has a mildly minimizing effect.
I know, my shopping is thrilling. I'm just happy that I ended up with two high-quality tops and a CK dress for $32 dollars and they don't smell like old people, which is a problem for a lot of thrift stores. No matter how much you wash stuff from Salvation Army, it'll always smell like grandma. I think I'm going to make a trip to that store every two weeks. I really need to buff up my wardrobe.
Monday, June 29, 2009
They know that I can rhyme..
I've been listening to the CD that I bought from the band on Friday.
It's truly fantastic. Each song that comes on I think to myself, "This, this is my favorite song on the CD," and with every song, the next one makes me say the same thing. I just can't get over it.
Driving home from dinner with some friends, on the freeway, crusing away from the sunset, clouds dyed orange, brown, and pink, the lights lining the freeway this odd peachy contrast against the blips of blue between clouds.
I found myself suddenly saddened, listening to this music.
There's not a single person I can think of that I would want to share it with. That I think would appreciate it on the level that I do, that it would touch like it touches me. None of my friends, none of my lovers, present or past. People don't like to feel that ache.
I know, even with GV8 and his long-range plans, he's not for me, we aren't playing for keeps.
I am going to be alone.
You just don't get girls like me. Sure, I've heard of similiar, but whenever I meet one... no. Similiar on the social level, sometimes. Everything else, not so much.
Again, always one foot out the door, living with my shadowman because no other man is going to do it for me, I'm never going to find that resonation that I look for. Sure, I find the wild, damaged men that are my mirrors. I know them well. We collide and thunder rolls.
But where am I going to find my shadowman? Where am I going to find that man in my head, the man that knows damage, knows strength, knows and understands the dominance/submission dynamic, knows how to interact, how to carry himself, and the need to self-destruct?
Who is going to curl up with me in my bed and just listen to the rain? Curtains open, drops pelting the glass and the roof above us, cool sheets, fingers casually draped over my ribs, hair sliding across pillow, eyes half-closed.
I need my poetry, I need the internal conflict.
While I was driving, I knew. This thing with GV8... it's not going to last. It will last as long as I let it, but if he falls for me, I'm going to have to hurt him because I can't stay with him. He's not my lifemate, he's not who my soul sings for. I refuse to settle. He's a wonderful guy, he's strong, confident, a fantastic playmate, knowledgable, so very driven, so in control. I care about him, love spending time with him.
But he's not it.
Maybe I'll never find "it".
I'm usually okay with that. Sometimes... not so much. I'm a loner by nature, a companion by design. Physical contact sustains me, but I generally prefer my own company to the company of others. I'm wrecked and I'm wild and I shit-test guys I like by sleeping with them immediately because if they're going to think less of a girl like me for jumping into bed with them on a first or second date, I don't want to waste my time. It's always so disappointing, when I meet someone and I think they're intelligent, experienced, and funny... but they just can't get over their social issues.
Can you imagine this? You go out with a guy (or girl), and you totally click. Humor, physical attractiveness, intelligence, you're laughing all night, telling each other stories, having a fantastic time. So you invite them back to your place, you have good to amazing sex, grab breakfast together, and never see them again. You let them know during dinner that you aren't looking for a relationship, that you've had lovers in the past that you've gone on with for years without emotional entanglements, and they agree with you, say they're looking for the same thing. You text them or email them once, if they get back to you, you know it's game-on. They are okay, they don't have their little madonna-whore complex going on. Or they don't. And then maybe you run into them somewhere a few months later and they tell you that the reason why they didn't call you or whatever was because they don't think girls can have sex with guys and no get emotionally attached because girls always get attached to the guys they bone. Or you hear from a mutual friend that because you moved fast, they figured that you were easy and not the type of girl for a friends-with-benefits situation.
Except you constantly have males getting really pissed off at you because you've got such a high number count but you won't sleep with them. Which means what they are trying to say is, "You've just insulted me because you've slept with all these other guys and have this wild reputation but you won't sleep with me so that means something is wrong with me or something is wrong with you and I'm going to go with the latter, so how dare you reject me?"
Which I get way too often.
I am picky. I just go out a lot and get lots of offers. It's like magic.
So then this guy is telling you that he was afraid that you'd get emotionally attached to him and you're sitting there with your head slightly cocked going, "Oh, honey, you aren't that amazing."
I had a guy I slept with for years confess to me a few months ago that he was constantly afraid that I was going to fall in love with him. When he told me that, I almost started laughing after the initial shock wore off. Then I realized that he'd take my laughter as an insult to him as opposed to a "I can't believe you just said that, you giant dork" expression.
So if they aren't being pissed off that you're not sleeping with them, they're worried that they're so cool that you'll fall in love with them because you're this helpless female with no control over her emotions, or you're some headcase looking for validation through physical contact with the opposite sex.
Translate: you're easy, so you must have no self-worth. Or, you're easy, you sleep with anyone, which means I'm not special, which means you just hurt my ego. Or, you're easy, so you must have STDs. Or, you're easy, your father must have molested you as a child. Or, you're easy, so you probably cheat on your partners, etc etc etc.
I've cheated on two boyfriends in my entire life, when I was 16 and when I was 18. Twice for the 16, once for the 18.
In the last, oh, I don't know, seven or eight years, I have had three partners where we did not use protection. The most recent, he got out a condom, then we went into a rape-scene and he did not put it on and I couldn't tell because I was face-down, ass-up. Before that, I had been blowing one of my co-workers in the back hallway at the office (he was sooooo nice looking) and things got a little wild. Fortunately, it was right before my lunch break so I ran out for some Plan B. That was three years ago. Another, also about three years ago, was a regular partner who was not remotely endowed, was tested clean, and I kept in total control. I have never had an STD, unless you count the standard coldsores I've had since I was a child.
Heh, somehow I started ranting. I totally didn't mean to do that.
I know I don't function normally. I know it screws with people, even when I don't wish it to. My brain is off at this weird angle with these bizarre ethics and yet, somehow, I manage to function and be a productive member of society. My relationships, whether committed or open, have full communication and honesty (at least from me, this last one was epic failure that will never be repeated). I respect my partner, respect their wants and needs, even if I don't understand them. Everything is on the table with me because to do any less would not be good enough.
I was seeing this guy, Zat, in November/December of last year (truthfully, I was seeing about five guys in October/November/December of last year, before I whittled it down). We were having fun, sex was good, loved hanging out with him, we both knew it wasn't going anywhere past friendship and physical. And, per his request, I kept him updated to my activities with other guys. When Mr. Rape-Scene pulled the no-condom stunt (and got a talking-to for it), I told Zat immediately, on the phone, so he would have time to digest and come to a conclusion before we next went out. He decided that I was being, or allowing myself to be, too risky, and we killed the sex. I didn't argue, didn't complain, didn't try to persuade him otherwise.
I'm actually going to be seeing him this weekend. That will be nice, to catch up. He's an awesome guy.
Zat, he never thought less of me for sleeping with him the second time we went out. He believed that I represented myself honestly and accurately, and respected me for doing so. Enjoyed that I did so. He had no issue with a "sexually liberated" female (I hatehatehate that description).
I don't feel liberated. I have not burst free from any social constrictions, from any cages holding me back. Some guy did not come around and open my eyes to the ways of the world.
I need to come up with another description.
Sexually honest? Sexually apathetic? Sexually aggressive?
Okay, probably not that last one.
It's truly fantastic. Each song that comes on I think to myself, "This, this is my favorite song on the CD," and with every song, the next one makes me say the same thing. I just can't get over it.
Driving home from dinner with some friends, on the freeway, crusing away from the sunset, clouds dyed orange, brown, and pink, the lights lining the freeway this odd peachy contrast against the blips of blue between clouds.
I found myself suddenly saddened, listening to this music.
There's not a single person I can think of that I would want to share it with. That I think would appreciate it on the level that I do, that it would touch like it touches me. None of my friends, none of my lovers, present or past. People don't like to feel that ache.
I know, even with GV8 and his long-range plans, he's not for me, we aren't playing for keeps.
I am going to be alone.
You just don't get girls like me. Sure, I've heard of similiar, but whenever I meet one... no. Similiar on the social level, sometimes. Everything else, not so much.
Again, always one foot out the door, living with my shadowman because no other man is going to do it for me, I'm never going to find that resonation that I look for. Sure, I find the wild, damaged men that are my mirrors. I know them well. We collide and thunder rolls.
But where am I going to find my shadowman? Where am I going to find that man in my head, the man that knows damage, knows strength, knows and understands the dominance/submission dynamic, knows how to interact, how to carry himself, and the need to self-destruct?
Who is going to curl up with me in my bed and just listen to the rain? Curtains open, drops pelting the glass and the roof above us, cool sheets, fingers casually draped over my ribs, hair sliding across pillow, eyes half-closed.
I need my poetry, I need the internal conflict.
While I was driving, I knew. This thing with GV8... it's not going to last. It will last as long as I let it, but if he falls for me, I'm going to have to hurt him because I can't stay with him. He's not my lifemate, he's not who my soul sings for. I refuse to settle. He's a wonderful guy, he's strong, confident, a fantastic playmate, knowledgable, so very driven, so in control. I care about him, love spending time with him.
But he's not it.
Maybe I'll never find "it".
I'm usually okay with that. Sometimes... not so much. I'm a loner by nature, a companion by design. Physical contact sustains me, but I generally prefer my own company to the company of others. I'm wrecked and I'm wild and I shit-test guys I like by sleeping with them immediately because if they're going to think less of a girl like me for jumping into bed with them on a first or second date, I don't want to waste my time. It's always so disappointing, when I meet someone and I think they're intelligent, experienced, and funny... but they just can't get over their social issues.
Can you imagine this? You go out with a guy (or girl), and you totally click. Humor, physical attractiveness, intelligence, you're laughing all night, telling each other stories, having a fantastic time. So you invite them back to your place, you have good to amazing sex, grab breakfast together, and never see them again. You let them know during dinner that you aren't looking for a relationship, that you've had lovers in the past that you've gone on with for years without emotional entanglements, and they agree with you, say they're looking for the same thing. You text them or email them once, if they get back to you, you know it's game-on. They are okay, they don't have their little madonna-whore complex going on. Or they don't. And then maybe you run into them somewhere a few months later and they tell you that the reason why they didn't call you or whatever was because they don't think girls can have sex with guys and no get emotionally attached because girls always get attached to the guys they bone. Or you hear from a mutual friend that because you moved fast, they figured that you were easy and not the type of girl for a friends-with-benefits situation.
Except you constantly have males getting really pissed off at you because you've got such a high number count but you won't sleep with them. Which means what they are trying to say is, "You've just insulted me because you've slept with all these other guys and have this wild reputation but you won't sleep with me so that means something is wrong with me or something is wrong with you and I'm going to go with the latter, so how dare you reject me?"
Which I get way too often.
I am picky. I just go out a lot and get lots of offers. It's like magic.
So then this guy is telling you that he was afraid that you'd get emotionally attached to him and you're sitting there with your head slightly cocked going, "Oh, honey, you aren't that amazing."
I had a guy I slept with for years confess to me a few months ago that he was constantly afraid that I was going to fall in love with him. When he told me that, I almost started laughing after the initial shock wore off. Then I realized that he'd take my laughter as an insult to him as opposed to a "I can't believe you just said that, you giant dork" expression.
So if they aren't being pissed off that you're not sleeping with them, they're worried that they're so cool that you'll fall in love with them because you're this helpless female with no control over her emotions, or you're some headcase looking for validation through physical contact with the opposite sex.
Translate: you're easy, so you must have no self-worth. Or, you're easy, you sleep with anyone, which means I'm not special, which means you just hurt my ego. Or, you're easy, so you must have STDs. Or, you're easy, your father must have molested you as a child. Or, you're easy, so you probably cheat on your partners, etc etc etc.
I've cheated on two boyfriends in my entire life, when I was 16 and when I was 18. Twice for the 16, once for the 18.
In the last, oh, I don't know, seven or eight years, I have had three partners where we did not use protection. The most recent, he got out a condom, then we went into a rape-scene and he did not put it on and I couldn't tell because I was face-down, ass-up. Before that, I had been blowing one of my co-workers in the back hallway at the office (he was sooooo nice looking) and things got a little wild. Fortunately, it was right before my lunch break so I ran out for some Plan B. That was three years ago. Another, also about three years ago, was a regular partner who was not remotely endowed, was tested clean, and I kept in total control. I have never had an STD, unless you count the standard coldsores I've had since I was a child.
Heh, somehow I started ranting. I totally didn't mean to do that.
I know I don't function normally. I know it screws with people, even when I don't wish it to. My brain is off at this weird angle with these bizarre ethics and yet, somehow, I manage to function and be a productive member of society. My relationships, whether committed or open, have full communication and honesty (at least from me, this last one was epic failure that will never be repeated). I respect my partner, respect their wants and needs, even if I don't understand them. Everything is on the table with me because to do any less would not be good enough.
I was seeing this guy, Zat, in November/December of last year (truthfully, I was seeing about five guys in October/November/December of last year, before I whittled it down). We were having fun, sex was good, loved hanging out with him, we both knew it wasn't going anywhere past friendship and physical. And, per his request, I kept him updated to my activities with other guys. When Mr. Rape-Scene pulled the no-condom stunt (and got a talking-to for it), I told Zat immediately, on the phone, so he would have time to digest and come to a conclusion before we next went out. He decided that I was being, or allowing myself to be, too risky, and we killed the sex. I didn't argue, didn't complain, didn't try to persuade him otherwise.
I'm actually going to be seeing him this weekend. That will be nice, to catch up. He's an awesome guy.
Zat, he never thought less of me for sleeping with him the second time we went out. He believed that I represented myself honestly and accurately, and respected me for doing so. Enjoyed that I did so. He had no issue with a "sexually liberated" female (I hatehatehate that description).
I don't feel liberated. I have not burst free from any social constrictions, from any cages holding me back. Some guy did not come around and open my eyes to the ways of the world.
I need to come up with another description.
Sexually honest? Sexually apathetic? Sexually aggressive?
Okay, probably not that last one.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Stay wilder than the wind...
I don't dream at night.
My sleep has no images or constructed storylines intruding upon it.
I used to dream all the time. Every night guaranteed, I would wake from multiple dreams. Some good, some bad, some terrifying. My favorites always consisted of me as some lithe, four-legged animal running through cities at night, over fences, up walls, or being pursued by some faceless masculine entity, but more stimulating and exciting than causing of fear. The nightmares, I was always trapped, unable to move, unable to run, interrupted in mid-flight and grounded while a family member, usually my sister, was drowned or murdered by another faceless entity.
But I stopped dreaming in the last few years.
I close my eyes, I slide into unconsciousness, and then I open them to sunlight.
I don't know what happened.
I remember cartoons and random movies where the villian of the piece would attempt to steal children for their pleasant dreams because the villian was completely lacking in the ability to dream. Somehow, the dreams would enable them to rest for once, to be guiltless and free during their sleeping hours.
In City of Lost Children, the villian kidnaps children off of the streets in the hopes of stealing their dreams so he can somehow stop his body from aging.
I never quite followed the logic in that, but I loved the floating brain character.
It's becoming more noticable now, possibly because of the couchsurfing I engage in during the week. I get woken up at odd hours fairly often and there are no images interrupted in my brain, no matter of the time of night or morning.
... ... ... ...
I think I fought off my cold through flooding my system with water and exercise. It's there, but barely.
I went to see Lucha va Voom at The Mayan last night with some friends. Mexican wrestling and strippers. What else could a girl need? The variety of body-types the dancers had was pretty noticable. One very buxom and jiggly hispanic girl, one standard girl with average curves, a tall blonde that, even while wearing stilettos had no ass to speak of, a very petite latina, a girl with the total dancer's muscled body, and then, of course, a lithe male at the end who was absolutely fanastic.
We cheered, we booed, we shouted and made cat-calls.
Afterwards, I steered us down a few blocks to the Hotel Figueroa. I found this place while I was wandering around the Staples Center last summer. The little restaurant just inside the front door serves wonderful burgers, and the bar is killer. Well, not the alcohol. I have no idea about their stock. But the atmosphere, the music, sitting under the buildings with the searchlights going off to the west, clouds filling the sky and each table lit up with a single candle in various colored glass jars... it's perfect.
It's in those moments where I'm sitting in the cold air, thinking:
Let me be alone forever, if just so no one will disturb this perfect scene.
I can't imagine being with anyone that brings me the peace that such places bring me, those inner vibrations, the resonance that you experience when you step into a room and you know that part of you and part of it align on such a base frequency, you can't help but feel as though you found something that you had been missing.
When I met Wolfboy, almost eight years ago know, when I saw him, I knew. I knew that we could be meant for each other, that the wild vibrations screaming down my spine translated the potential, the intensity, we could have. Those vibrations never left us, even when years were spent apart or in the company of other lovers, when we reconnected, we both knew something more was there.
But I decided that I did not want the life he offered... and then someone else's fate took him out of my hands. I continue to miss him, in the way that I do, where most memories fade, glances exchanged become lost, and the world that was constructed around the two of you is resigned to a high shelf, far out of reach.
My friends and I sat around one of the tables by the pool, drinking, until C started nodding off. We walked back to my car, stopping for street meat on the way. The aromas of carmelized onions and peppers got to our companions and they could not say no to the mysterious potentially meat-based product.
The streets were empty and oddly clean. I never expect anything remotely near downtown to be clean. Traffic was minimal. It was apocalyptic... just without the requisite zombies. We spotted a bright red two-story tall electric sign declaring "JESUS SAVES" on our walk, something I had never noticed before. It gave the end of the evening this desolate feeling that I, as usual, enjoyed.
It leaves me wanting to be alone. I want to be up at 4AM, wandering the empty parts of LA. I want to see the city as few do. I want to be undisturbed, unmolested, and soak up the atmosphere that comes from being on an empty street that is only a few hours from being flooded with people.
I want to step outside of it. I want to be part of the gray. That time of the evening, time of the morning, when it is neither daylight or dark, the misty dusk. And when it is about to rain, but the clouds can't quite push it over the edge, so the world becomes monochrome, but dry.
These are my favorite moments, when something is caught between two opposites.
Possibly because I am, as always, caught between two opposites... but I can never resolve myself to just being that way, like the dusk. My need to define myself and my continuous failure to do so stabs at me, leaves me open to interpretation, open to other standards, to other ideas and influences.
It's good to be part of two worlds. It allows you to interact, allows viewpoints, allows friendships with people that you would not normally meet, to experience things that would normally pass by.
But then you never fit in.
Anywhere.
You always have one foot out the door, not because you're planning on leaving, but because you never fully came in.
I've been clubbing, been part of a particular scene for almost eight years now. I have many, many friends in the scene. I can dance. I can dress the part. I can do the make-up and the hair. I know the bands, I know the DJs, the venues, the promoters, the history. I've never quite belonged, and it has been commented on a few times over the years. Not in a negative way, but just as an observation by friends.
Neither masculine or feminine in personality, either, but this odd middle ground.
I suppose that I should be thankful that my body is decidedly female, or I might have developed an androgyny complex.
... ... ... ...
This weekend is the new club. I've poked a few people about going, but I'm not really driving it home like I should be. GV8 is coming with me, of course. I'm just looking forward to an evening of dancing to triphop. Portishead's Biscuit is, to me, pure sex. That song is how I love.
Also going to be spinning by the warehouse/loft for some pre-construction pictures. It's going to be cool to see how it all comes together. I'm sure I'll be posting the progress here.
Anyhow, places to go, people to see and all that. It's Friday, I've got demands on my time, a weekend to organize, and a man whose bones I must jump.
My sleep has no images or constructed storylines intruding upon it.
I used to dream all the time. Every night guaranteed, I would wake from multiple dreams. Some good, some bad, some terrifying. My favorites always consisted of me as some lithe, four-legged animal running through cities at night, over fences, up walls, or being pursued by some faceless masculine entity, but more stimulating and exciting than causing of fear. The nightmares, I was always trapped, unable to move, unable to run, interrupted in mid-flight and grounded while a family member, usually my sister, was drowned or murdered by another faceless entity.
But I stopped dreaming in the last few years.
I close my eyes, I slide into unconsciousness, and then I open them to sunlight.
I don't know what happened.
I remember cartoons and random movies where the villian of the piece would attempt to steal children for their pleasant dreams because the villian was completely lacking in the ability to dream. Somehow, the dreams would enable them to rest for once, to be guiltless and free during their sleeping hours.
In City of Lost Children, the villian kidnaps children off of the streets in the hopes of stealing their dreams so he can somehow stop his body from aging.
I never quite followed the logic in that, but I loved the floating brain character.
It's becoming more noticable now, possibly because of the couchsurfing I engage in during the week. I get woken up at odd hours fairly often and there are no images interrupted in my brain, no matter of the time of night or morning.
... ... ... ...
I think I fought off my cold through flooding my system with water and exercise. It's there, but barely.
I went to see Lucha va Voom at The Mayan last night with some friends. Mexican wrestling and strippers. What else could a girl need? The variety of body-types the dancers had was pretty noticable. One very buxom and jiggly hispanic girl, one standard girl with average curves, a tall blonde that, even while wearing stilettos had no ass to speak of, a very petite latina, a girl with the total dancer's muscled body, and then, of course, a lithe male at the end who was absolutely fanastic.
We cheered, we booed, we shouted and made cat-calls.
Afterwards, I steered us down a few blocks to the Hotel Figueroa. I found this place while I was wandering around the Staples Center last summer. The little restaurant just inside the front door serves wonderful burgers, and the bar is killer. Well, not the alcohol. I have no idea about their stock. But the atmosphere, the music, sitting under the buildings with the searchlights going off to the west, clouds filling the sky and each table lit up with a single candle in various colored glass jars... it's perfect.
It's in those moments where I'm sitting in the cold air, thinking:
Let me be alone forever, if just so no one will disturb this perfect scene.
I can't imagine being with anyone that brings me the peace that such places bring me, those inner vibrations, the resonance that you experience when you step into a room and you know that part of you and part of it align on such a base frequency, you can't help but feel as though you found something that you had been missing.
When I met Wolfboy, almost eight years ago know, when I saw him, I knew. I knew that we could be meant for each other, that the wild vibrations screaming down my spine translated the potential, the intensity, we could have. Those vibrations never left us, even when years were spent apart or in the company of other lovers, when we reconnected, we both knew something more was there.
But I decided that I did not want the life he offered... and then someone else's fate took him out of my hands. I continue to miss him, in the way that I do, where most memories fade, glances exchanged become lost, and the world that was constructed around the two of you is resigned to a high shelf, far out of reach.
My friends and I sat around one of the tables by the pool, drinking, until C started nodding off. We walked back to my car, stopping for street meat on the way. The aromas of carmelized onions and peppers got to our companions and they could not say no to the mysterious potentially meat-based product.
The streets were empty and oddly clean. I never expect anything remotely near downtown to be clean. Traffic was minimal. It was apocalyptic... just without the requisite zombies. We spotted a bright red two-story tall electric sign declaring "JESUS SAVES" on our walk, something I had never noticed before. It gave the end of the evening this desolate feeling that I, as usual, enjoyed.
It leaves me wanting to be alone. I want to be up at 4AM, wandering the empty parts of LA. I want to see the city as few do. I want to be undisturbed, unmolested, and soak up the atmosphere that comes from being on an empty street that is only a few hours from being flooded with people.
I want to step outside of it. I want to be part of the gray. That time of the evening, time of the morning, when it is neither daylight or dark, the misty dusk. And when it is about to rain, but the clouds can't quite push it over the edge, so the world becomes monochrome, but dry.
These are my favorite moments, when something is caught between two opposites.
Possibly because I am, as always, caught between two opposites... but I can never resolve myself to just being that way, like the dusk. My need to define myself and my continuous failure to do so stabs at me, leaves me open to interpretation, open to other standards, to other ideas and influences.
It's good to be part of two worlds. It allows you to interact, allows viewpoints, allows friendships with people that you would not normally meet, to experience things that would normally pass by.
But then you never fit in.
Anywhere.
You always have one foot out the door, not because you're planning on leaving, but because you never fully came in.
I've been clubbing, been part of a particular scene for almost eight years now. I have many, many friends in the scene. I can dance. I can dress the part. I can do the make-up and the hair. I know the bands, I know the DJs, the venues, the promoters, the history. I've never quite belonged, and it has been commented on a few times over the years. Not in a negative way, but just as an observation by friends.
Neither masculine or feminine in personality, either, but this odd middle ground.
I suppose that I should be thankful that my body is decidedly female, or I might have developed an androgyny complex.
... ... ... ...
This weekend is the new club. I've poked a few people about going, but I'm not really driving it home like I should be. GV8 is coming with me, of course. I'm just looking forward to an evening of dancing to triphop. Portishead's Biscuit is, to me, pure sex. That song is how I love.
Also going to be spinning by the warehouse/loft for some pre-construction pictures. It's going to be cool to see how it all comes together. I'm sure I'll be posting the progress here.
Anyhow, places to go, people to see and all that. It's Friday, I've got demands on my time, a weekend to organize, and a man whose bones I must jump.
Monday, June 22, 2009
I first produced my pistol...
1020PM on a Monday.
If I could ever get to sleep by a "normal" hour, I think the people around me would get concerned.
I remember having a bedtime of 830, and thinking 930 was so late and when I was older I'd stay up to the exalted 10PM.
Now I sit and hope that my life and my brain will slow down enough during the week so that I can get to bed before 1230 each night.
I drove home from my friend's place a little before 9PM, finding myself putting "Whiskey in the Jar" by Thin Lizzy on repeat. That guitar reminds me so much of my childhood, of listening to that type of rock with my parents, doing yard work and hanging out with my father in the garage of our first house in San Gabriel Valley.
I drove by LAX.
It never gets old, seeing those planes lined up, waiting to touch down, sometimes an entire highway of backed up aircraft. I look out my window and watch, wondering who is on them, where they're coming from, if they're coming home or coming out here for vacation or business. How many are asleep, how many are reading, how many are traveling due to life upheavals? The ones who sit, who dread the descent, dread coming back home to their unhappy marriages or empty apartments. The ones who stare out their window at the grid that makes up LA.
I miss this neighborhood. I miss being so near the beach, so near the airport. Driving up PCH just because I can, just because it's there, checking the bonfires at Dockweiler on the weekends, being ever so careful because the pedestrians are drunk, stupid, and more than willing to run across the small highway in front of your car.
Before this summer is over, sometime around midnight, I want to take a blanket out to that beach, long after the cops have kicked everyone out, and lay on my back and watch the planes.
I can hardly imagine anything better.
Freedom and possibility flying over your head.
Reminds me of being up in Oregon, sitting on the hood of the car, watching a meteor shower, dodging the millions of moths that haunted our headlights.
Time is passing so quickly. I find myself looking at my body, wondering what it is going to be like to watch the gradual decline of my flesh. I wonder if I'll go to skin and bones, or to plumpness, when I'm in my 70s. I think I'd prefer the plump. Skinny old people look too breakable, and aren't comfortable to hug. I wonder what my tattoos will look like, if the black will fade and blur like so many sailors' tattoos I've seen in the nursing homes.
If I reproduce, will my children, and my possible children's children, look intently at photographs of me at their own age, like I have done so much over the years, and look for bits of themselves, or look for bits of me that the recognize? Will they think I'm pretty? Will they tell each other that they've got my eyes? Will someone regale them with the my blacksheep stories?
On Father's Day, my family and I sat on the patio in the backyard, eating dinner.
My sister brought up alcohol, and how she really does not like tequila. My father tells her, "There's something in it. I don't know what. When I drank it I always wanted to fight or fuck."
My mother tells me I have so much of my father in me, in my personality.
My father, who tries so hard to suppress that nature in himself, who wishes so badly that I was not like him.
My father, the partier, the man about town, the manwhore, the druggie, the prankster.
My father, getting smashed with Jerry Garcia, hanging with Timothy Leary.
The man who tore his own nose off because he was so spun out on something he decided to ride his motorcycle down a hill by standing on it.
Reading Sperm Wars, they talk about mate selection, about passing down desirable social traits, on particular chapter spoke of two half-siblings with different fathers, and how one was also social, shining, and active, and the other was always a few steps behind, shy, and passive, mirrors of their fathers.
Something in me broke, years ago. And now I'm living the life he left for my mother when he was 23. Except I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs.
Anymore.
Will I ever have children that I will sit by me on the couch, flipping through scrapbooks with, showing pictures of the grandfather and grandmother to?
Do I even want kids?
Can I imagine trusting and submitting to a man so deeply that I would wish to carry his seed? That I would make my body into a vessel for his offspring?
I don't know. I don't want children, but I know that someone, somewhere, may eventually change my mind. I'm submissive in nature, and to carry a man's child seems like the ultimate act of submission to me. My body is yours, my body accepts you, accepts your seed, and will spend the next eight to nine months changing in order to successfully give birth to our offspring.
...hm.
I think I am going to continue to pass on this.
If I could ever get to sleep by a "normal" hour, I think the people around me would get concerned.
I remember having a bedtime of 830, and thinking 930 was so late and when I was older I'd stay up to the exalted 10PM.
Now I sit and hope that my life and my brain will slow down enough during the week so that I can get to bed before 1230 each night.
I drove home from my friend's place a little before 9PM, finding myself putting "Whiskey in the Jar" by Thin Lizzy on repeat. That guitar reminds me so much of my childhood, of listening to that type of rock with my parents, doing yard work and hanging out with my father in the garage of our first house in San Gabriel Valley.
I drove by LAX.
It never gets old, seeing those planes lined up, waiting to touch down, sometimes an entire highway of backed up aircraft. I look out my window and watch, wondering who is on them, where they're coming from, if they're coming home or coming out here for vacation or business. How many are asleep, how many are reading, how many are traveling due to life upheavals? The ones who sit, who dread the descent, dread coming back home to their unhappy marriages or empty apartments. The ones who stare out their window at the grid that makes up LA.
I miss this neighborhood. I miss being so near the beach, so near the airport. Driving up PCH just because I can, just because it's there, checking the bonfires at Dockweiler on the weekends, being ever so careful because the pedestrians are drunk, stupid, and more than willing to run across the small highway in front of your car.
Before this summer is over, sometime around midnight, I want to take a blanket out to that beach, long after the cops have kicked everyone out, and lay on my back and watch the planes.
I can hardly imagine anything better.
Freedom and possibility flying over your head.
Reminds me of being up in Oregon, sitting on the hood of the car, watching a meteor shower, dodging the millions of moths that haunted our headlights.
Time is passing so quickly. I find myself looking at my body, wondering what it is going to be like to watch the gradual decline of my flesh. I wonder if I'll go to skin and bones, or to plumpness, when I'm in my 70s. I think I'd prefer the plump. Skinny old people look too breakable, and aren't comfortable to hug. I wonder what my tattoos will look like, if the black will fade and blur like so many sailors' tattoos I've seen in the nursing homes.
If I reproduce, will my children, and my possible children's children, look intently at photographs of me at their own age, like I have done so much over the years, and look for bits of themselves, or look for bits of me that the recognize? Will they think I'm pretty? Will they tell each other that they've got my eyes? Will someone regale them with the my blacksheep stories?
On Father's Day, my family and I sat on the patio in the backyard, eating dinner.
My sister brought up alcohol, and how she really does not like tequila. My father tells her, "There's something in it. I don't know what. When I drank it I always wanted to fight or fuck."
My mother tells me I have so much of my father in me, in my personality.
My father, who tries so hard to suppress that nature in himself, who wishes so badly that I was not like him.
My father, the partier, the man about town, the manwhore, the druggie, the prankster.
My father, getting smashed with Jerry Garcia, hanging with Timothy Leary.
The man who tore his own nose off because he was so spun out on something he decided to ride his motorcycle down a hill by standing on it.
Reading Sperm Wars, they talk about mate selection, about passing down desirable social traits, on particular chapter spoke of two half-siblings with different fathers, and how one was also social, shining, and active, and the other was always a few steps behind, shy, and passive, mirrors of their fathers.
Something in me broke, years ago. And now I'm living the life he left for my mother when he was 23. Except I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs.
Anymore.
Will I ever have children that I will sit by me on the couch, flipping through scrapbooks with, showing pictures of the grandfather and grandmother to?
Do I even want kids?
Can I imagine trusting and submitting to a man so deeply that I would wish to carry his seed? That I would make my body into a vessel for his offspring?
I don't know. I don't want children, but I know that someone, somewhere, may eventually change my mind. I'm submissive in nature, and to carry a man's child seems like the ultimate act of submission to me. My body is yours, my body accepts you, accepts your seed, and will spend the next eight to nine months changing in order to successfully give birth to our offspring.
...hm.
I think I am going to continue to pass on this.
Friday, June 19, 2009
A woman holds her tongue...
I was having a decent day today. Interesting conversations, dinner plans, talking with GV8 on the phone on my way home from work, laughter with my coworkers, and finished one of my books.
Nothing spectacular, but good.
Went out to dinner with one of my guy friends, an ex-coworker who I used to find attractive due to his alpha nature at work and our ability to work together almost perfectly... but once out of the office, he turns semi-beta... which only goes downhill if I can't keep him comfortable. As long as I'm acting like one of the guys, he's cool. As soon as I start acting like a chick, he becomes awkward. Very awkward. I try to save him from that.
Ran into some friends while we were out, said our hellos, exchanged hugs.
Stepped into Borders to check on two books that I haven't been able to find. They had one. The Surrender by Toni Bentley. GoneSavage recommended it to me, looks decent. Also grabbed a copy of Exile in Guyville. That guy can write like whoa. Finally snagged Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I've never seen a Monroe flick, which will be remedied tonight.
So everything was fine.
Then I get home.
I moved back in with my parents a few months ago, on their offer that I could go back to school for my Master's and live rent free. In this economy... yeah. When I was working on my Bachelor's, I regretted so much not being able to be a "college student". Not being able to live that life, to be on campus during the day, to actually focus on my education as opposed to working the insane job I was, where school ended up being an afterthought.
When they offered, I turned them down. Five months later, as my living situation continued to worsen, I finally agreed.
I did not want to. School would be wonderful, but living in a house with my father when he's in an extremely stressful part of his life is a receipe for disaster. I've been here since the end of February, and I'm still waiting for the blow up that is bound to happen.
So I get home. Forgetting the lazy, I-need-to-do-laundry, shirt I put on, I walked into their bedroom to tell them I was home and talk to my mother about grabbing breakfast tomorrow.
That particular shirt is... something that tends to stop people in their tracks with embarassment or laughter because it's pretty vulgar. I've had grown men blush at seeing it, which I think is hysterical. I walk into their room, take about a step and a half, and my mother looks up from her book.
"V!" frustration is evident, "Will you please go back out into the hallway and turn that shirt inside out before you come in here?"
"What? Oh, crap. Sorry. I'll go change."
"No, no, it's fine. Just come in here and wish us goodnight."
"Nah, I'll go change. I need to anyhow. Be right back."
Grab my bags, go upstairs, grab the shirt off my bed, toss it on, grab my dirty laundry, go back downstairs.
"Does that shirt say 'FIST'??"
Crap. "Yes."
"Fist??"
"Yeah. Like when you ball your hand into one."
"What does the back say?" I wasn't going to turn around, but then with her, "Oh my God, V!" I remember that there's a mirror behind me. "M, can you see what her shirt says?!" to my father.
Sigh.
"I can't believe you're wearing a shirt that says that!"
Which launches into a mini-lecture of how crude my shirt was and how I must've done that on purpose (I did, but I didn't actually expect her to read the thing. It's a men's extra-large, making it a tent on me, which means it should be hard to read.) and if she liked a shirt like the one I was wearing she wouldn't like herself very much and jesuschristetcetcetcshootme.
My mother and I are very close, but it's her constant judgement and viewing me as though I'm still 15 that sticks a wedge between us.
Which is odd. You think me not living at home for all these years would get it out of her system.
What am I supposed to say?
"I wish you accepted my humor."
"How could I accept something so crude?? I bet your father even thinks it's crude."
Yes, that's right, drag my father into this. Fucking wonderful. How long do you expect him to allow me to live here if you do this? I don't want to get a year into my Master's degree and have him boot me out of the house because you freaked out over a shirt. Not to mention, I didn't even buy this shirt. This shirt came in a NIN boxed set that I inherited from a friend. I think Reznor is a whiny little drama queen, but I still find this shirt amusing enough to wear it to bed.
I could say,
I wear this shirt because I'm comfortable with my sexuality. It's something that I've had to do a lot of work on, something that has caused me a lot of emotional pain over the years, but I grew in a way so many girls don't, and established myself in a way so that I would be healthy and strong, you should be glad that I do not allow my sex to be used against me.
I could also say,
You're encouraging your husband, my father, to go into a rage right now by freaking like this. You may not know it, but he has made it directly clear to me that if something happens, he'll always choose you over my sister and me, and that if I make you too upset, I'm gone. So you're jeapordizing my education and economic well-being right now.
I could also say,
It's a shirt. I'm sorry that it bothers you, this is your house and I should pay more attention to what I'm wearing. I'm grateful that you allowed me this opportunity to go back to school, but please realize that I am in my mid-twenties, that I have lived outside the familial house for several years now and I'm used to being my own person. You are exercising bad habits by laying into me like I'm a rebellious teenager.
I could also say,
Whenever you do this, it wounds me. I know I am not like you, I have known for years that I have been different, outside the rest of the family. But I still love you, still value your opinion and would wish for your support. I'm happy, healthy, and strong. Why can't you let me retain these things in the way that I've found works best for me? Why can't you support me in finding out who I am and what I want out of this life you've given me? You create such internal tension in me by telling me what I should want, who I should be, how I should feel, that when I actually acknowledge what I want, who I am, and how I'm feeling... I become fractured. You're damaging me.
But I don't.
I say nothing.
I say nothing because my father is there and I don't want to move again. I just want this next year to be calm.
Later, I apologize for my inconsiderateness, then request of my mother that she not freak out like that in front of my father unless she feels like watching him eject me from the house.
I feel in pieces. I feel that, by staying here, I'm jeapordizing my mental integrity. I'm going to lose myself to their pressures and expectations of what happiness is and who I should be and how I should go about achieving it.
But... with the opportunity of going back to school, of focusing on my education, of doing something I love...
Sigh.
I don't even get a break this weekend. Well, I do. I have no dates. None. I've finally managed to retain a free weekend. I don't know when this happened last, it has been so long.
But I'm going to be here. At home. With a family that will never understand me, and will never support me if they don't understand.
Alone again.
Nothing spectacular, but good.
Went out to dinner with one of my guy friends, an ex-coworker who I used to find attractive due to his alpha nature at work and our ability to work together almost perfectly... but once out of the office, he turns semi-beta... which only goes downhill if I can't keep him comfortable. As long as I'm acting like one of the guys, he's cool. As soon as I start acting like a chick, he becomes awkward. Very awkward. I try to save him from that.
Ran into some friends while we were out, said our hellos, exchanged hugs.
Stepped into Borders to check on two books that I haven't been able to find. They had one. The Surrender by Toni Bentley. GoneSavage recommended it to me, looks decent. Also grabbed a copy of Exile in Guyville. That guy can write like whoa. Finally snagged Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I've never seen a Monroe flick, which will be remedied tonight.
So everything was fine.
Then I get home.
I moved back in with my parents a few months ago, on their offer that I could go back to school for my Master's and live rent free. In this economy... yeah. When I was working on my Bachelor's, I regretted so much not being able to be a "college student". Not being able to live that life, to be on campus during the day, to actually focus on my education as opposed to working the insane job I was, where school ended up being an afterthought.
When they offered, I turned them down. Five months later, as my living situation continued to worsen, I finally agreed.
I did not want to. School would be wonderful, but living in a house with my father when he's in an extremely stressful part of his life is a receipe for disaster. I've been here since the end of February, and I'm still waiting for the blow up that is bound to happen.
So I get home. Forgetting the lazy, I-need-to-do-laundry, shirt I put on, I walked into their bedroom to tell them I was home and talk to my mother about grabbing breakfast tomorrow.
That particular shirt is... something that tends to stop people in their tracks with embarassment or laughter because it's pretty vulgar. I've had grown men blush at seeing it, which I think is hysterical. I walk into their room, take about a step and a half, and my mother looks up from her book.
"V!" frustration is evident, "Will you please go back out into the hallway and turn that shirt inside out before you come in here?"
"What? Oh, crap. Sorry. I'll go change."
"No, no, it's fine. Just come in here and wish us goodnight."
"Nah, I'll go change. I need to anyhow. Be right back."
Grab my bags, go upstairs, grab the shirt off my bed, toss it on, grab my dirty laundry, go back downstairs.
"Does that shirt say 'FIST'??"
Crap. "Yes."
"Fist??"
"Yeah. Like when you ball your hand into one."
"What does the back say?" I wasn't going to turn around, but then with her, "Oh my God, V!" I remember that there's a mirror behind me. "M, can you see what her shirt says?!" to my father.
Sigh.
"I can't believe you're wearing a shirt that says that!"
Which launches into a mini-lecture of how crude my shirt was and how I must've done that on purpose (I did, but I didn't actually expect her to read the thing. It's a men's extra-large, making it a tent on me, which means it should be hard to read.) and if she liked a shirt like the one I was wearing she wouldn't like herself very much and jesuschristetcetcetcshootme.
My mother and I are very close, but it's her constant judgement and viewing me as though I'm still 15 that sticks a wedge between us.
Which is odd. You think me not living at home for all these years would get it out of her system.
What am I supposed to say?
"I wish you accepted my humor."
"How could I accept something so crude?? I bet your father even thinks it's crude."
Yes, that's right, drag my father into this. Fucking wonderful. How long do you expect him to allow me to live here if you do this? I don't want to get a year into my Master's degree and have him boot me out of the house because you freaked out over a shirt. Not to mention, I didn't even buy this shirt. This shirt came in a NIN boxed set that I inherited from a friend. I think Reznor is a whiny little drama queen, but I still find this shirt amusing enough to wear it to bed.
I could say,
I wear this shirt because I'm comfortable with my sexuality. It's something that I've had to do a lot of work on, something that has caused me a lot of emotional pain over the years, but I grew in a way so many girls don't, and established myself in a way so that I would be healthy and strong, you should be glad that I do not allow my sex to be used against me.
I could also say,
You're encouraging your husband, my father, to go into a rage right now by freaking like this. You may not know it, but he has made it directly clear to me that if something happens, he'll always choose you over my sister and me, and that if I make you too upset, I'm gone. So you're jeapordizing my education and economic well-being right now.
I could also say,
It's a shirt. I'm sorry that it bothers you, this is your house and I should pay more attention to what I'm wearing. I'm grateful that you allowed me this opportunity to go back to school, but please realize that I am in my mid-twenties, that I have lived outside the familial house for several years now and I'm used to being my own person. You are exercising bad habits by laying into me like I'm a rebellious teenager.
I could also say,
Whenever you do this, it wounds me. I know I am not like you, I have known for years that I have been different, outside the rest of the family. But I still love you, still value your opinion and would wish for your support. I'm happy, healthy, and strong. Why can't you let me retain these things in the way that I've found works best for me? Why can't you support me in finding out who I am and what I want out of this life you've given me? You create such internal tension in me by telling me what I should want, who I should be, how I should feel, that when I actually acknowledge what I want, who I am, and how I'm feeling... I become fractured. You're damaging me.
But I don't.
I say nothing.
I say nothing because my father is there and I don't want to move again. I just want this next year to be calm.
Later, I apologize for my inconsiderateness, then request of my mother that she not freak out like that in front of my father unless she feels like watching him eject me from the house.
I feel in pieces. I feel that, by staying here, I'm jeapordizing my mental integrity. I'm going to lose myself to their pressures and expectations of what happiness is and who I should be and how I should go about achieving it.
But... with the opportunity of going back to school, of focusing on my education, of doing something I love...
Sigh.
I don't even get a break this weekend. Well, I do. I have no dates. None. I've finally managed to retain a free weekend. I don't know when this happened last, it has been so long.
But I'm going to be here. At home. With a family that will never understand me, and will never support me if they don't understand.
Alone again.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Doesn't hurt me to be free...
I went out with the boys from the tattoo studio last night, out to a concert at the Key Club on Sunset.
The band was amazing, the company was attractive all around, the club itself was packed way beyond capacity and the occupants were screaming along with each song.
It wasn't my scene, wasn't my world.
As each meticulously made up petite faux-blonde passed me, I felt more and more out of my element. These girls were so young, so groomed, so very sculpted for this lifestyle. I try to imagine growing up in a household where money is no issue, and the thought of potentially spoiling one's child never occurs. When a way of living allows for hours of grooming, of getting wasted or spun each night, of so much money dropped on clothes and accessories.
Stress free.
Well, not stress free. I'm sure they have plenty of stresses that are as alien to me as their fashion sense and social standards.
Reality free.
But, then, they shape their own reality. They are born into a lifestyle, or they force themselves, work hard for that lifestyle, and then they design who they want to be, determine their priorities.
I take my hair from the natural ash-blonde to a chocolatey black with red highlights.
My eyes have been bleached from hours in the sun, leaving them sky blue with gold rings.
I try not to tan, leave my skin as pale as possible, though not due to any goth or emo leanings.
I got home at three in the morning.
The freeway curves welcomed me as I slid over them. Sobriety suits me, has for years.
I took a shortcut, blasting through various residential neighborhoods well over the speed limit. A previous lifetime leaves these routes marked in my head, knowing which will get me home with the least chance of cops and the least appearance of traffic signals. I find no red lights to slow my drive.
Windows rolled down, hair pulled back, a song put on repeat, heater blowing on my feet. I could drive this blind, but the memories triggered by this path are valuable, remind me of someone I used to be. This corner, that coffee shop, this fence, this hill, that bench. I was there, years ago, and I give a mental half-hearted salute as I fly by. Thanks for the good times, thanks for showing me the way I could have been.
This is my world.
I get behind the wheel and guide my car through the twisted roads through hills. I pick my routes based on curves and lack of slowing impediments. I would rather be here, in this moment, consuming the miles of endless road, than with the people of Sunset Boulevard.
There is no connect, no common ground other than humanity.
I am my own.
The band was amazing, the company was attractive all around, the club itself was packed way beyond capacity and the occupants were screaming along with each song.
It wasn't my scene, wasn't my world.
As each meticulously made up petite faux-blonde passed me, I felt more and more out of my element. These girls were so young, so groomed, so very sculpted for this lifestyle. I try to imagine growing up in a household where money is no issue, and the thought of potentially spoiling one's child never occurs. When a way of living allows for hours of grooming, of getting wasted or spun each night, of so much money dropped on clothes and accessories.
Stress free.
Well, not stress free. I'm sure they have plenty of stresses that are as alien to me as their fashion sense and social standards.
Reality free.
But, then, they shape their own reality. They are born into a lifestyle, or they force themselves, work hard for that lifestyle, and then they design who they want to be, determine their priorities.
I take my hair from the natural ash-blonde to a chocolatey black with red highlights.
My eyes have been bleached from hours in the sun, leaving them sky blue with gold rings.
I try not to tan, leave my skin as pale as possible, though not due to any goth or emo leanings.
I got home at three in the morning.
The freeway curves welcomed me as I slid over them. Sobriety suits me, has for years.
I took a shortcut, blasting through various residential neighborhoods well over the speed limit. A previous lifetime leaves these routes marked in my head, knowing which will get me home with the least chance of cops and the least appearance of traffic signals. I find no red lights to slow my drive.
Windows rolled down, hair pulled back, a song put on repeat, heater blowing on my feet. I could drive this blind, but the memories triggered by this path are valuable, remind me of someone I used to be. This corner, that coffee shop, this fence, this hill, that bench. I was there, years ago, and I give a mental half-hearted salute as I fly by. Thanks for the good times, thanks for showing me the way I could have been.
This is my world.
I get behind the wheel and guide my car through the twisted roads through hills. I pick my routes based on curves and lack of slowing impediments. I would rather be here, in this moment, consuming the miles of endless road, than with the people of Sunset Boulevard.
There is no connect, no common ground other than humanity.
I am my own.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Landing...
Nearly 11PM, the plane starts to slide out of the sky, a sloping angle towards Los Angeles.
The overhead light is off, air conditioner vent blowing across my face, half-pressed against the window, watching as the wings bank against the horizon.
Most of the passengers are asleep, the girl on my left included, having finally wiped herself out with flight-anxiety, her body gave. No more white knuckles share my armrest.
My books are at my feet, propped up against the wall so as not to spill, and my notebook rests in my lap, open to a half-full page.
I'm alone.
Surrounded by people, this flight is alone.
At night, I drove to the airport, dropped the rental car, and took the rail into the terminal.
I sat against the wall and ate a banana, the healthiest thing I could find in the airport foodcourt.
They called for boarding, section A, and I went. Straight down the aisle, dodging hastily shoved luggage, sliding past wayward appendages.
We fly, and I read. We fly, and I write.
When we land, I wait for most of the passengers to exit before uncurling myself from my seat and grabbing my bags.
I call no one when I am off the plane. I walk through the terminal, abandoned on a Sunday night, I walk past the baggage claim, through the gates and the passengerless cabs. Up the stairs, over the racetrack highway that I've come to know in the last few years.
My car is where I remember it, exactly to the spot. Untouched. Sitting down in the driver's seat feels odd, since I spent so much of my time in the rental. I'm lower, closer to the ground. My turning radius is better. I'll have to adjust for this.
Five minutes on the street, I'm okay.
Fifteen minutes, I'm at ease in my vehicle again.
I need to wash it.
I turn onto the freeway and I'm home.
The overhead light is off, air conditioner vent blowing across my face, half-pressed against the window, watching as the wings bank against the horizon.
Most of the passengers are asleep, the girl on my left included, having finally wiped herself out with flight-anxiety, her body gave. No more white knuckles share my armrest.
My books are at my feet, propped up against the wall so as not to spill, and my notebook rests in my lap, open to a half-full page.
I'm alone.
Surrounded by people, this flight is alone.
At night, I drove to the airport, dropped the rental car, and took the rail into the terminal.
I sat against the wall and ate a banana, the healthiest thing I could find in the airport foodcourt.
They called for boarding, section A, and I went. Straight down the aisle, dodging hastily shoved luggage, sliding past wayward appendages.
We fly, and I read. We fly, and I write.
When we land, I wait for most of the passengers to exit before uncurling myself from my seat and grabbing my bags.
I call no one when I am off the plane. I walk through the terminal, abandoned on a Sunday night, I walk past the baggage claim, through the gates and the passengerless cabs. Up the stairs, over the racetrack highway that I've come to know in the last few years.
My car is where I remember it, exactly to the spot. Untouched. Sitting down in the driver's seat feels odd, since I spent so much of my time in the rental. I'm lower, closer to the ground. My turning radius is better. I'll have to adjust for this.
Five minutes on the street, I'm okay.
Fifteen minutes, I'm at ease in my vehicle again.
I need to wash it.
I turn onto the freeway and I'm home.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Forget
I finally accepted my life, and I thought you should know.
Driving up the coast, ocean on my left, cliffs on my right, the song on the radio telling me to forget. There were no bonfires tonight. Too cold, I suppose. Usually the beach is lit up with them, meteors plunged to earth. Star fall.
I follow the curve to a local, usually empty restaurant, and pick a table in the corner where I will remain undisturbed, except for the constant chatter of the television in the opposite corner. A dog show, of all things.
The waitress asks me what I would like to drink, and if I am expecting others.
No, I tell her, just me.
Before I even look at the menu, she asks me if I know what I want already.
Apparently she gets a lot of us, solitary diners, solitary people. And, yes, I already know what I want, without looking at the menu.
She knows too well this MO.
She leaves. I open my book. I read.
My drink arrives. I read.
And the song on the radio, now playing in my head, tells me to forget.
Forget what?
Forget that I am this solitary being? Forget the clamor of people, asking for help, asking for advice, validation, attention? Forget that I have never found a single social group that I could fit into, that those who I do not immediately connect with are either intimidated by me or find me aloof and detached? Forget the words of an ex, who, when we broke up, told me I was too intense, too overwhelming? That I would eat his life? Forget the people that look on me like some sort of trophy? Or the things I did to myself so such things would not bother me? Forget how many meals I have eaten alone, how many movie theaters I have sat in by myself, and the constant knowledge that this is my life? Forget how many miles upon miles of sidewalk and asphalt I have walked alone in exploration of the world and of the self?
So many evenings ending with me and a keyboard, fingers flowing, fingers dancing, exorcising my demons. Translating feelings into words.
I shed my skin.
People have expectations of me to always be strong. People think that I can take it all. What did he say to me? That he thought it would be okay to damage me for his own self-interest because he thought I was strong enough to take it? People are always so shocked when I become weak, even temporarily. It's like this idol has fallen, has turned human.
And then they reach to me. Reach for me. As if I could heal their damages, just because I have seen so many like them that I can predict their behavior because I've seen it before. That somehow my attentions will fix and validate them. That me choosing them means they're special in some way.
Sometimes men pour their hearts out to me in such a way... and I can do nothing. There's no connect. There's no words for them. And then others believe acting in a certain way will attract my attention, like I'm some typical girl who will fall for their games that I've seen a dozen times over and used against them.
When I slam them against the wall with words, they lash out in anger.
But they never get in my shell.
Their expectations, their memories, their hopes. I can walk into a room and know that those who ask who I am will hear a dozen different sordid stories of the things I have done, and some listeners will connect old tales with me. So that's the girl.
I walk inside myself. I walk detached from the world. I monitor each step, each sway, where my clothes cling, where my hands rest. I do not think about this any longer, I just do it naturally. They call me predatory. They say I'm one of the most predatory girls they've ever met, a shark gliding through waters. Silent and controlled. Never angry. And while constantly open, never connected.
I'm good at it.
They scoff when I tell them I think I'll be single forever. The constant stream of flesh through my life attests otherwise, as if any of those men could be the one in my head. As if any of them could have that strength and understanding, that they wouldn't be overwhelmed.
I accepted it, maybe not today, but it has been... acknowledged. I've nodded at my future, told it I would see it soon.
Alone but not lonely.
I thought you should know.
Driving up the coast, ocean on my left, cliffs on my right, the song on the radio telling me to forget. There were no bonfires tonight. Too cold, I suppose. Usually the beach is lit up with them, meteors plunged to earth. Star fall.
I follow the curve to a local, usually empty restaurant, and pick a table in the corner where I will remain undisturbed, except for the constant chatter of the television in the opposite corner. A dog show, of all things.
The waitress asks me what I would like to drink, and if I am expecting others.
No, I tell her, just me.
Before I even look at the menu, she asks me if I know what I want already.
Apparently she gets a lot of us, solitary diners, solitary people. And, yes, I already know what I want, without looking at the menu.
She knows too well this MO.
She leaves. I open my book. I read.
My drink arrives. I read.
And the song on the radio, now playing in my head, tells me to forget.
Forget what?
Forget that I am this solitary being? Forget the clamor of people, asking for help, asking for advice, validation, attention? Forget that I have never found a single social group that I could fit into, that those who I do not immediately connect with are either intimidated by me or find me aloof and detached? Forget the words of an ex, who, when we broke up, told me I was too intense, too overwhelming? That I would eat his life? Forget the people that look on me like some sort of trophy? Or the things I did to myself so such things would not bother me? Forget how many meals I have eaten alone, how many movie theaters I have sat in by myself, and the constant knowledge that this is my life? Forget how many miles upon miles of sidewalk and asphalt I have walked alone in exploration of the world and of the self?
So many evenings ending with me and a keyboard, fingers flowing, fingers dancing, exorcising my demons. Translating feelings into words.
I shed my skin.
People have expectations of me to always be strong. People think that I can take it all. What did he say to me? That he thought it would be okay to damage me for his own self-interest because he thought I was strong enough to take it? People are always so shocked when I become weak, even temporarily. It's like this idol has fallen, has turned human.
And then they reach to me. Reach for me. As if I could heal their damages, just because I have seen so many like them that I can predict their behavior because I've seen it before. That somehow my attentions will fix and validate them. That me choosing them means they're special in some way.
Sometimes men pour their hearts out to me in such a way... and I can do nothing. There's no connect. There's no words for them. And then others believe acting in a certain way will attract my attention, like I'm some typical girl who will fall for their games that I've seen a dozen times over and used against them.
When I slam them against the wall with words, they lash out in anger.
But they never get in my shell.
Their expectations, their memories, their hopes. I can walk into a room and know that those who ask who I am will hear a dozen different sordid stories of the things I have done, and some listeners will connect old tales with me. So that's the girl.
I walk inside myself. I walk detached from the world. I monitor each step, each sway, where my clothes cling, where my hands rest. I do not think about this any longer, I just do it naturally. They call me predatory. They say I'm one of the most predatory girls they've ever met, a shark gliding through waters. Silent and controlled. Never angry. And while constantly open, never connected.
I'm good at it.
They scoff when I tell them I think I'll be single forever. The constant stream of flesh through my life attests otherwise, as if any of those men could be the one in my head. As if any of them could have that strength and understanding, that they wouldn't be overwhelmed.
I accepted it, maybe not today, but it has been... acknowledged. I've nodded at my future, told it I would see it soon.
Alone but not lonely.
I thought you should know.
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