| The power of written word |
[Mar. 5th, 2008|04:45 pm] |
I feel disconnected. But there are moments of brightness, when the whole world engulfs me and wraps its arms around me and whispers sweet things in my ear. It is momentary, but this hug of faith unsettles me even as it shows me the seams where everything is connected.
From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be mistaken for light--a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey through the darkness to the astronaut's eyes.
In about one and a half centuries--after the lovers who made the glow will have long since been laid permanently on their backs--metropolises will be seen from space. They will glow all year. Smaller cities will also be seen, but with great difficulty. Shtetls will be virtually impossible to spot. Individual couples, invisible.
The glow is born from the sum of thousands of loves: newlyweds and teenagers who spark like lighters out of butane, pairs of men who burn fast and bright, pairs of women who illuminate for hours with soft multiple glows, orgies like rock and flint toys sold at festivals, couples trying unsuccessfully to have children who burn their frustrated image on the continent like the bloom a bright light leaves on the eye after you turn away from it.
That's from Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated. I saw the movie once, but never read the book until now and I'm stunned by the beauty it offers. The stunted English. The dialogue bleeding together into one paragraph of adjacent quotations. The innocence of the characters. It's the same qualities that made me fall in love with Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, that made me weep real tears when the grandfather realized his blind wife had written her entire life story on a broken typewriter, with only blank paper to show for her suffering.
I wish my world were more like it is in books. |
|
|
| Dissociative |
[Mar. 4th, 2008|09:10 pm] |
I told myself not to worry. It was just from lack of sleep.
There were moments where everything went out of focus. My narration of what was happening became louder than what was going on in front of me. I argued with myself internally, trying to convince myself that I was experiencing life. I should feel. I should care. But didn't.
I sat in my mom's room a few minutes ago and thought of the word "dissociative". I typed it into google and found an article that scared me with its accuracy.
Depersonalization disorder... symptoms include sense of automation, feeling of disconnection from one's body, and difficulty relating oneself to reality.
Reading through the symptoms I came upon the most horrifying, relieving, accurate description of what is going on that I have ever heard:
An analogy is comparing real life to a game, a game everyone plays, all the time. Someone suffering from depersonalization disorder constantly feels as if they cannot get into the game; any stimulus feels contrived or artificial to them. The rules of this game seem to have been forcibly applied upon them (anything from movement, gravity or hunger) instead of being inherently applicable to them. If understanding dawns upon them of what they should be experiencing, it is often through reason and observation, or the feeling of knowing what and why it is happening. This sort of insight seems to rob everything of its spontaneity, its importance having already been diminished because of their sense of detachment. They are perpetual, and almost all the time, involuntary cynics of our reality.
I don't know how else to say that that is exactly what I have been experiencing. I am an actor in the movie of my life and none of it is real.
In other news: I might be bisexual? |
|
|
| Help |
[Mar. 1st, 2008|01:41 pm] |
I am a stranger.
My mother has decided that I am a drug addict, and now regards me with a mixture of pity and confusion. She claims to know so much, but I had to keep myself from chuckling when I realized she didn't even know what I was smoking.
It's stressful. I have no one to talk to. I realized the other day that I won't be able to make four years of university, let alone another year of high school at this rate. I can't do it. I'm falling apart. Like my fictional characters--my Morgan, my Patrick, my Leland, my Abraham--I'm misplacing pieces of myself and have no idea how to order them out again.
I don't want help with drugs. I don't need it. I want help with my family. We don't know each other. |
|
|
| Foolish |
[Feb. 24th, 2008|02:25 pm] |
I won't delete the entries before this one, even though they make me feel foolish. When I finally got what I wanted, I didn't want it anymore and I realized that infatuation is powerful and dangerous. It took me too long to get out of that mess and to leave Morrison behind. I was tired of listening to him cry on the phone, and tired of being his soul mate. I broke it off. I haven't talked to him since.
Summit tried to make a move on me. He came over and touched me and kissed me, and when I walked him to the bus stop I promised to see him on Wednesday. When he got to my house that day, I had Betta over. She was on the couch next to me with Bam, who took her back with no questions when I took Morrison from her. Summit sat down, watched TV, and then left. I never wanted to talk to him again, so when he called the following week asking if I could find zoomers, well...
"Let me see what I can do." I hung up the phone, called Betta and had a conversation consisting of laughter. When he called me back I told him seriously, "Sorry, man. Everybody's dry."
I hung up on his voice, but mostly on his presence. I'm done with all of it.
I feel like a fool. |
|
|
| Yes |
[Oct. 21st, 2007|11:45 am] |
I feel infinite.
Yesterday felt like a culmination, a catharsis. It was something beautiful and magical and spiritual. I went to Morrison's house, where it was just the two of us, and as soon as I got in the door there was a connection again. We kissed, finally able to shed barriers between us. "I smell; I'm taking a shower," he said. "Care to join me?"
There was no shame. We were naked and soapy and kissing each other in the water. It ran over us, cleansing us. We moved to the bed, and on top of the covers we made love. It wasn't long after that that we ran upstairs to do it again.
After dark, we sat down to watch a movie. We watched Val Kilmer slither around as Jim Morrison for a while, and then became distracted with each other again. That time wasn't "making love", even though there was candlelight and warmth. It was fucking, pure and raw, and we moaned and rocked together, sweating buckets.
Afterwards we said it again and more: "I love you." "I love you too."
The shower after that was necessary, and we kissed and ached for closeness. He was smiling and laughing like a little boy, shameless, making faces in the mirror. I towel-dried my hair into a ridiculous mess, and then laughed about it as I brushed it out. He had knots on his shoulders, his hipbones, his lower back. I sat on him and kneaded them loose with my fingers and palms. He groaned, relaxed, and talked about the connectivity of it all: "It's humanity and the shame and fear that causes pollution and war and all the other problems. If everyone simply believed that we have the ability and the will to change things, we would. The planet feeds on our negativity."
He makes so much possible. |
|
|
| Waiting |
[Oct. 14th, 2007|11:56 am] |
Maybe "wait and see" has done some good after all.
Morrison took the bus over, and then we sat in silence. I felt like we were meditating, and it was wonderful. Soul mates. Pure. We were one.
There was a moment where we were wrapped in a blanket and I told him, "I know how you feel about Betta. But I want you to know that I'll wait for you."
This morning he looked me in the eyes and said, "I want you to wait for me. Please."
"I will."
Normally I'd feel put upon and stressed. How dare he ask me that! But he's so rarely selfish that I can't help but feel happy bending my will to meet his. Is this love? It's not butterflies in my stomach. I feel a deep connection to his soul. I can see myself moving to a rustic house in the middle of nowhere and growing old with him. He makes me a spiritualist. I believe in everything when I'm with him. Anything is possible. I could fly if he asked me to. |
|
|
| The Diamond |
[Oct. 11th, 2007|12:09 pm] |
I never intended for this awkward... square? four-sided diamond? to happen. What's worse is that I'm the only one who knows it's happening, because I'm the only one who hasn't been entirely honest yet.
To keep things straight, I'll remind and introduce:
Betta - a close friend of mine, frequent pot buddy, recently broke up with stoic boyfriend of two years.
Jim Morrison - sadly, not the real one. A hippie who idolizes The Doors and wears his heart on his sleeve to be trampled on. Also known simply as Morrison.
Summit - the best friend of Morrison, an absolute player, and absolutely gorgeous.
The whole thing really started before I even met the hippies. Betta met them somehow, and slept with Morrison at a party. Because he has a tender heart and warm nature, Morrison immediately fell in love with Betta (who, at the time, was attached). They decided to hang out more, as friends, and haven't had sex since.
On my birthday, I met Summit. We all smoked pot in the woods and walked around, and I couldn't stop laughing. There was a moment where I was bumping against Summit's shoulders, thinking what I've always been accustomed to thinking around boys: "I don't have a chance in the world."
Then the next weekend, Summit and I had sex. Several times. It was good times, and when everyone left, I was in the house alone with Morrison. We smoked pot together and talked and talked and talked. He's dramatic and heavy and honest, and I felt a connection with him. We could talk about anything and everything. I don't know.
The following weekend was the party at Stick Insect's, and so much went wrong and right that it's hard to determine what the outcome was. Morrison said it needed to happen. It got things out in the open. But it didn't.
I think Summit is great for sex. I think Betta needs to make up her mind and stop toying with Morrison. I think Morrison needs to give up on Betta and realize that I'm here. He's seeking all this love and affection from Betta, but she doesn't fucking know. She won't return it.
I haven't cried for real in weeks, it feels like. The night before my birthday I couldn't stop bawling, and I feel like I need that kind of release again.
At Stick Insect's party, on too many shrooms, I went downstairs and closed the door behind me, and sat with Morrison on the floor. I wanted to explain, but couldn't explain. I wanted to say: "I feel like you read my mind and finish my sentences. I feel like I'm radiating love in your direction, but you have a force field around you that blinds you and shields you from view. All you want is Betta. All she wants is simplicity. Nothing. I don't know how to say what I want. I want you to realize that I'm here and give me something."
What I actually said was, "I forget."
There was a moment, too, where I felt like Morrison might have realized. My skirt hiked up and I had my hands on my tights, and Morrison was over me and then abruptly stood up. "My body is telling me to do something," he said. "My mind knows I shouldn't." And then he got up and left. I wouldn't have done it. But I wanted to put my face in his hair and tell him that I could love him better than Betta can.
I don't want to say anything about this, because that would only make things more complicated. Morrison needs to get over Betta somehow. I don't know what I need to do. Wait, maybe. Even though wait and see has never done anybody any good. Ever. |
|
|
| I've Finally Been Here |
[Sep. 30th, 2007|04:05 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Guatamala, Gone - Bluesativa | ] |
I am so at peace right now.
This entire weekend has felt like catharsis to me. All of the emotions and stress I had built up in me were just alleviated in a cloud of mist and smoke. I wish we could have been swaying in my black-lit bathroom, white shirts glowing fluorescent, skin beautifully tanned, forever. I wish our sweaty hugs and rushed kisses didn't have to end. I wish my bathtub was still glowing, and the stereo was still playing calm music, and we were inhaling smoke and exhaling into air drenched with sweat.
I'm not sure if this is due to the weekend and its easy calm. Maybe I'm just happy because I had great sex.
This is the first time I've been alone without wanting to be in a long time. I feel peaceful. I am spiritual. I have found my crowd. I feel the love.
Love. |
|
|
| Stomp stomp stomp |
[Sep. 21st, 2007|01:25 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | St. Apollonia - Beirut | ] |
Another two days of skipping under my belt. I need to stop this.
It was my birthday on Wednesday. I've survived seventeen years. The night was crazy: Stick Insect, Betta, and two hippies walked around the park with me, smoking out of a bong made with a bottle of Sunny D and a socket. I got so many bruises from playing on the creative at the park, and then more from sitting on the swing with the two hippies pushing me on either side. I couldn't stop laughing.
After dropping the hippies off, Stick Insect and Betta took me to Cherry Blaster's house, where we sat on the back porch and smoked more. Her mother didn't smoke with us this time, but she wished me a happy birthday and smirked as we passed around a bottle. Cherry Blaster announced, "we're all going to brew you gigantic yellow ones for your birthday," and then after that had happened, she told me, "you're adorable when you're uncomfortably high."
The night before my birthday I couldn't stop bawling. I'm tinted with gray. I hate my life sometimes. |
|
|
| There Are Powerlines In Our Bloodlines |
[Sep. 10th, 2007|09:00 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | The Engine Driver - The Decemberists | ] |
This is the second week of school, and already I've skipped two afternoons. This is not the good start I'd imagined for myself.
At Country Boy on the weekend, standing in the parking lot after stuffing myself with breakfast at dinner, I told Stick Insect the order of preference for universities, where I want to go, where I doubt I'll go, where I'll apply to even though I don't really want to go. He gave me a frank response: "You'll never get into university if you keep slacking the way you do."
He's right, too. For once, I actually fully and completely agree with Stick Insect. I can't be skipping or slacking. I need honour roll and (more) volunteer hours, not pot and sleep. He told me that if I skipped and ended up at his house, he'd kick me out. "You have to go school," he said. "You can't skip like I did and still get into great universities."
I miss my sister. I canceled on her best friend, choosing to get high instead of going to the park with her and her daughter. I'm more of a mess than I tell myself. |
|
|
| Gales |
[Sep. 1st, 2007|12:27 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | I Remember - Damien Rice | ] |
My concept of time is entirely distorted.
It feels like just the other day it was my sister's wedding day, and everyone was busy and happy and crying and wishing well. It feels like only a few weeks ago I turned sixteen and felt absolutely unremarkable in every way. It feels like today is a Tuesday in July, and I have the whole summer stretching ahead of me, all those moments of time within reach.
It's been ten months since my sister's wedding. I'll be mailing her an anniversary card soon, along with her birthday card because the dates are so close. It's been almost twelve months since I turned sixteen. Later this month I'm going to go through the same realization that a change of age means absolutely nothing, and it's just another moment in time that has passed me by quietly like so many others. Today is the first of September, a Saturday, and I start my senior year in three days. Time has flown by in a great gust of wind, whipping my skirt into waves of fabric, hurting my face with its intensity, blowing my umbrella inside-out. I always forget to brace myself and concentrate on the things that the wind picks up. I get lost in the gales.
This has been a summer of excess, which is the most likely reason it feels like I've lost so much time. Whole days are obliterated from my mind in a blur of smoke and laughter, long rambling stories, lying on my back with my feet in the air and screaming until my throat is hoarse. These things are calming, inciting, terrible and hilarious. I promised myself to cut back when school starts, and I think last night was the right way to end it: sitting on a good friend's back porch with her and her mother, huddled under a blanket with Stick Insect, laughing along with a girl I've never met before. We passed the pipe between us, blowing the smoke into the mom's face because it calms her Fibromyalgia. We sipped coolers out of tumblers, licking our lips to savour the lemon-soda taste. At eleven thirty, I mumbled, "I should probably get home," and so Stick Insect drove me home, following the speed limit, voicing his paranoias to get rid of the fear. My house was dark when I got in. I felt wonderful.
I always feel as though the beginning of the school year is the beginning of my self-improvement. I bite my nails. I don't exercise enough. I rarely finish homework. I feel as though the beginning of the year is when I can rectify those things. I make goals and charts and schedules, tell myself how much time I could save in the morning, how much I shouldn't waste it at night.
I want this year to be the year I look back on in twenty years and say, "I did okay." |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
wynnetimate's journal