To make sure no one worries too much, I think I should preface this with a disclaimer: this isn't my usual confessional voice, though it sounds an awful lot like it. I've been thinking a lot on gender roles lately, and this is more the product of my musings in general than any specific personal perspective. So, read and enjoy, but don't concern yourself too much with what exactly this means for me. I'm not too sure myself just yet.
her hands are cold and sore
this is a weak metaphor
but she doesn't have much use for beauty
small hands, soft and round
make small miracles, milk and honey
turn back, water that had been wine
they aren't mine, but will be
temperance
is always drawn a woman
but daddy, i'm missing you
couldn't give me your time
couldn't give me a y, but i
don't know what to do
in a woman's skin
but miss you
and wish for a man
**edited to reflect midday tinkering
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Getting to know me
I've spent many hours over the past month cleaning and organizing, trying to bring some sense of order and beauty to my living space. Tonight, I spent hours pulling out old books and binders and journals, making a mess out of my bookshelves and covering the living room floor in drifts of paper. This seems both predictable and somehow right. I found plenty of interesting things. In no particular order:
A notepad with a series of rather detailed character studies and the vaguest possible outline of a novel. I remember writing these things on a plane, I believe to Seattle, and so this would have been the fall of 2006. Three years doesn't seem like enough distance to forget a novel, and it certainly doesn't make sense to me that my perspective has changed so much in that time. Reading through my notes, they seem very adolescent, little more than a clumsy, childish gesture at adulthood. I wanted to write a coming of age story about morality and religion, and honestly believed that a 23 year old might have the perspective necessary to do so. I suppose it kept me calm on the plane, and it never hurts to flex my writer muscles a bit, but I'm a bit embarrassed by the obviousness of my symbols and the utter transparency of my own moral insecurity. And by the fact that I kinda want to revisit it to see if I can make something of it, maybe just some short stories.
Old emails from Matt, along with some unsent hand-written letters to both him and Jacob, from 2000 to 2003. My god, I sounded pretentious. Do I still sound that way? It's distressing to realize how little my younger self and I would like each other if we could somehow meet. All the same, my voice is sweetly, achingly sincere, and so obviously full of love and gratitude for those two. And so was Matt's, in its way. It made me miss him intensely, though I know the friendship we had then was predicated on time spent together those last couple years in Odessa, and there's no way to get back to the same kind of closeness now, with so many miles in between. It's good to know that love can be like that, close for a time but still real even with distance that you know you'll never quite cross.
In one of Matt's emails, the words to a song he had just written, which I can still hear in my head and desperately wish I had a recording of. I don't think he would appreciate my sharing the title, even after all this time, but I have no doubt that he'd be flattered that almost ten years later, I still find it pertinent enough to repost in my own space:
I've got things to get back to
I don't want to think of you
Because that means that there's a choice
And a chance to fall back down
Well, I've been scared a long, long time
afraid to be afraid
so are you thinking what I'm thinking?
Do you care?
Can't you see
I could die inside tonight.
You make it seem and feel
like right is always right.
Do you trust me?
Oh, the things you'll see.
The things you'll see.
I've scared myself away,
and I'm afraid I'll do the same
to you and everyone that comes
to ask me how's my day.
Is it a wonder that I doubt
or a wonder that I pray?
And I don't know if you can understand
You don't need to understand.
I suppose it's a little adolescent, and it should be, seeing as he was all of eighteen when he wrote it. But it's also exactly the thing I've been chewing on tonight that led me to tear my apartment apart looking for pieces of my own history, remnants of my voice. I miss having people around me who know me, but I'm also afraid they never really did know me, because I hide myself away without meaning to. I want to be known, and I'm afraid to show myself, even to me. And is there any way to deal with these feelings that doesn't boil down to adolescent navel-gazing? I had a good and productive day, kept myself occupied with good and important things, but when it got dark and quiet and there was nothing left to be done, I filled up with this anxiety and loneliness, and I don't know what to do with but distract myself or dive head-first into analyzing it.
Getting back to the things scattered around me on the floor: a nice leather journal with gilt edges, a present from Brian for Christmas '01. Distressingly, I can't remember what I gave him that year, though I remember shopping/planning with him for Karen's present quite clearly. There are exactly two entries in the journal, because I'm always nervous about filling up nice, clean spaces with my messy words, and the first is a note from him that, among other things, praises me in terms I'm sure I didn't deserve at the time and haven't lived up to since: "Your love that refuses to give up on anyone has surely blessed my life..." Yeah. Sorry about that, Brian. That's certainly the most flattering way my clinging has ever been described, and I have no doubt that it was sincere, but it makes me feel sad and conflicted to think about it now. I can't really explain how or why I pick the people I decide to love, and I just refuse to let them go once I have, even when they really need me to. And it exhausts me, I can't sustain it and take care of myself, and I have to wonder how many potential relationships I've missed out on in all my chasing after people who were, for whatever reason, done with me. And, at the same time, I feel incredibly guilty that I haven't even heard Brian's voice in years now. So different than the way it felt to remember Matt, and I can't explain why. And, again, very pertinent to the events of the past few weeks. Do I keep loving Lain, keep chasing after Livvy, or do I let them slip away since that's obviously what they both want? I feel so very neglected and taken advantage of in both relationships, exhausted by the effort of being good to them, but it eats me up that the last time I spoke to each of them was in anger, and I haven't even apologized. The obvious solution is to write a couple apology emails, send them off and be done with it. Maybe I'll be ready for that in a couple more weeks, but right now I'm still far too hurt and angry to be able to do it with any sincerity.
Do other people agonize over these decisions like this? I know I'm no more generous or compassionate than anybody else, because we really are all pretty much the same when you get right down to it. It just looks from the outside like other people make these decisions with less angst and inner turmoil, and I'm not entirely convinced that all my worrying is actually making me a better person in any way. Of course, I'm also quite concerned that if I just dismiss these decisions out of hand I am essentially guaranteed to make the wrong choice and just hurt everybody more. Stupid brain. It's bedtime now; I promise we can worry more tomorrow.
A notepad with a series of rather detailed character studies and the vaguest possible outline of a novel. I remember writing these things on a plane, I believe to Seattle, and so this would have been the fall of 2006. Three years doesn't seem like enough distance to forget a novel, and it certainly doesn't make sense to me that my perspective has changed so much in that time. Reading through my notes, they seem very adolescent, little more than a clumsy, childish gesture at adulthood. I wanted to write a coming of age story about morality and religion, and honestly believed that a 23 year old might have the perspective necessary to do so. I suppose it kept me calm on the plane, and it never hurts to flex my writer muscles a bit, but I'm a bit embarrassed by the obviousness of my symbols and the utter transparency of my own moral insecurity. And by the fact that I kinda want to revisit it to see if I can make something of it, maybe just some short stories.
Old emails from Matt, along with some unsent hand-written letters to both him and Jacob, from 2000 to 2003. My god, I sounded pretentious. Do I still sound that way? It's distressing to realize how little my younger self and I would like each other if we could somehow meet. All the same, my voice is sweetly, achingly sincere, and so obviously full of love and gratitude for those two. And so was Matt's, in its way. It made me miss him intensely, though I know the friendship we had then was predicated on time spent together those last couple years in Odessa, and there's no way to get back to the same kind of closeness now, with so many miles in between. It's good to know that love can be like that, close for a time but still real even with distance that you know you'll never quite cross.
In one of Matt's emails, the words to a song he had just written, which I can still hear in my head and desperately wish I had a recording of. I don't think he would appreciate my sharing the title, even after all this time, but I have no doubt that he'd be flattered that almost ten years later, I still find it pertinent enough to repost in my own space:
I've got things to get back to
I don't want to think of you
Because that means that there's a choice
And a chance to fall back down
Well, I've been scared a long, long time
afraid to be afraid
so are you thinking what I'm thinking?
Do you care?
Can't you see
I could die inside tonight.
You make it seem and feel
like right is always right.
Do you trust me?
Oh, the things you'll see.
The things you'll see.
I've scared myself away,
and I'm afraid I'll do the same
to you and everyone that comes
to ask me how's my day.
Is it a wonder that I doubt
or a wonder that I pray?
And I don't know if you can understand
You don't need to understand.
I suppose it's a little adolescent, and it should be, seeing as he was all of eighteen when he wrote it. But it's also exactly the thing I've been chewing on tonight that led me to tear my apartment apart looking for pieces of my own history, remnants of my voice. I miss having people around me who know me, but I'm also afraid they never really did know me, because I hide myself away without meaning to. I want to be known, and I'm afraid to show myself, even to me. And is there any way to deal with these feelings that doesn't boil down to adolescent navel-gazing? I had a good and productive day, kept myself occupied with good and important things, but when it got dark and quiet and there was nothing left to be done, I filled up with this anxiety and loneliness, and I don't know what to do with but distract myself or dive head-first into analyzing it.
Getting back to the things scattered around me on the floor: a nice leather journal with gilt edges, a present from Brian for Christmas '01. Distressingly, I can't remember what I gave him that year, though I remember shopping/planning with him for Karen's present quite clearly. There are exactly two entries in the journal, because I'm always nervous about filling up nice, clean spaces with my messy words, and the first is a note from him that, among other things, praises me in terms I'm sure I didn't deserve at the time and haven't lived up to since: "Your love that refuses to give up on anyone has surely blessed my life..." Yeah. Sorry about that, Brian. That's certainly the most flattering way my clinging has ever been described, and I have no doubt that it was sincere, but it makes me feel sad and conflicted to think about it now. I can't really explain how or why I pick the people I decide to love, and I just refuse to let them go once I have, even when they really need me to. And it exhausts me, I can't sustain it and take care of myself, and I have to wonder how many potential relationships I've missed out on in all my chasing after people who were, for whatever reason, done with me. And, at the same time, I feel incredibly guilty that I haven't even heard Brian's voice in years now. So different than the way it felt to remember Matt, and I can't explain why. And, again, very pertinent to the events of the past few weeks. Do I keep loving Lain, keep chasing after Livvy, or do I let them slip away since that's obviously what they both want? I feel so very neglected and taken advantage of in both relationships, exhausted by the effort of being good to them, but it eats me up that the last time I spoke to each of them was in anger, and I haven't even apologized. The obvious solution is to write a couple apology emails, send them off and be done with it. Maybe I'll be ready for that in a couple more weeks, but right now I'm still far too hurt and angry to be able to do it with any sincerity.
Do other people agonize over these decisions like this? I know I'm no more generous or compassionate than anybody else, because we really are all pretty much the same when you get right down to it. It just looks from the outside like other people make these decisions with less angst and inner turmoil, and I'm not entirely convinced that all my worrying is actually making me a better person in any way. Of course, I'm also quite concerned that if I just dismiss these decisions out of hand I am essentially guaranteed to make the wrong choice and just hurt everybody more. Stupid brain. It's bedtime now; I promise we can worry more tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
At least I have my health
It's surprisingly nice to say that with sincerity. After nearly two weeks of being largely house-bound (not to mention a solid week of being quite nearly bed-ridden), it feels amazing just to shave my legs and do the dishes. This winter has been pretty hard so far, with lots of twists and upsets and some not-inconsequential heartbreak, and I've had plenty of time with nothing better to do than think about all of it. I spent a good chunk of that time in the altered consciousness of a high fever, so my musings haven't always been the most lucid, but I have managed to keep myself from melancholy and self-pity more often than I did through most of the fall. All in all, I think I can actually count this particular bout of pneumonia as a blessing. Which is weird.
I had the thought today that the last couple weeks have been about getting a taste of the things I've longed for, then having them stripped away, along with my ability to do even the simplest things for myself. It's made me poignantly grateful for every tiny bit of good that does come my way. It seems to me today that maybe I needed to have everything stripped away for just a bit, to be laid even lower than the self-pity I'm so habituated to. It means that as I get things back (like, for instance, the energy for basic hygiene) I can take joy in the ability, instead of lamenting the responsibility. I know this rush of gratitude and euphoria won't last; this sort of feeling is a sprinter, and shouldn't be counted on for the long haul. But right now I've got a chance to build some new, better habits and focus my thoughts in new, possibly healthier and more helpful directions.
I didn't live up to my own expectations last fall. In fact, I failed in exactly the way I had been so afraid I would if I took the risk and went back to school full time. And the world didn't fall apart, and the people I respect haven't written me off as a failure. (Well, not all of them anyway, but I'm not in the mood to dwell on that just at the moment.) Furthermore, I did get some other things done. I made a bunch of new friends, something I was very worried I wouldn't be able to do, and I think a couple of them are the quality of people I really, really want in my life. I put real, concentrated effort into my poetry, hours at a time and often several times a week, and the work shows. I'm seriously considering cleaning up a couple pieces for the NT Review, and maybe, just maybe, putting together a chap book and sending it to a couple periodicals. I mean, it'll only cost me a stamp or two, right? Why not?
And I've grown my understanding of social interaction as much in the past three months as in the year previous to that, possibly much more. Maybe it's more helpful to say that all the seeds that Sam and David and I had been planting in my psyche over the past several years have suddenly had an amazing growing season. It's been hard to deal with in a lot of ways. Actual compassion and insight aren't always gentle, easy things. They often mean accepting that people just don't fit together, or aren't giving each other anything good, and no one is at fault and no one is to blame, but everyone is hurting all the same. That part isn't so fun. But recognizing it sooner can only make me a happier, healthier person, not to mention a better friend. This is why I say understanding of social interaction and not just social skills, but really neither of those really captures what I'm getting at here. Awareness and self-possession have a lot to do with it, as do social grace and confidence.
And the most amazing thing to me is that all that interpersonal stuff, the social skills I've agonized over and the compassion I've always been burdened with/lauded for/confused by... it's the exact same thing that will make me a better writer. Because it's all about the exchange of information between human beings, and writing is just a narrow, focused version of the same.
In truth, I'm mostly communicating with myself right now. That's what I created this space for, after all. And there are a handful of people who have access to these words and will know that they're mine, and I'm aware of those individuals as I type, as I read through to make sure this is lucid and not riddled with typos. Is Lain still following after my two year hiatus? Has David finally decided to come check all of this out? Will Jacob or Laura have anything to say in response to all this? There is some potential for inter-personal exchange here, and that's what motivates me to get this all down instead of letting all these ideas chase themselves around my head all night. I think in the long run, though, the real value will be in having a snapshot of where my thoughts were running in the first few days of 2010, as I waited for my body to heal and my heart to... Huh.
What am I waiting for my heart to do? Heal? Be happy? Just pick itself up by the bootstraps and miraculously feel happy about the same things that have made me sad for so long? I would very much like to be ready to start trusting again, but that's a complicated, scary thing. I'm becoming more aware of my tendency to distrust, and that can only be helpful. Am I waiting to stop loving David? I hope not, because that would be a fairly stupid thing to do, seeing as I don't particularly want to. Maybe what I'm waiting for is the knowledge that there's room in my heart for new things and people, and that it won't be a betrayal to the people I've loved in the past when I start to move on. That he's not betraying me by moving on himself.
Well. This ended somewhere very different than where it started. I'm fairly certain that if I try to continue on from that last thought I'll circle back around to melancholy, and frankly I'm just not interested in that. I love him and I miss him, but there's a hell of a lot more to me and my life than those two little facts. What else? See above.
I had the thought today that the last couple weeks have been about getting a taste of the things I've longed for, then having them stripped away, along with my ability to do even the simplest things for myself. It's made me poignantly grateful for every tiny bit of good that does come my way. It seems to me today that maybe I needed to have everything stripped away for just a bit, to be laid even lower than the self-pity I'm so habituated to. It means that as I get things back (like, for instance, the energy for basic hygiene) I can take joy in the ability, instead of lamenting the responsibility. I know this rush of gratitude and euphoria won't last; this sort of feeling is a sprinter, and shouldn't be counted on for the long haul. But right now I've got a chance to build some new, better habits and focus my thoughts in new, possibly healthier and more helpful directions.
I didn't live up to my own expectations last fall. In fact, I failed in exactly the way I had been so afraid I would if I took the risk and went back to school full time. And the world didn't fall apart, and the people I respect haven't written me off as a failure. (Well, not all of them anyway, but I'm not in the mood to dwell on that just at the moment.) Furthermore, I did get some other things done. I made a bunch of new friends, something I was very worried I wouldn't be able to do, and I think a couple of them are the quality of people I really, really want in my life. I put real, concentrated effort into my poetry, hours at a time and often several times a week, and the work shows. I'm seriously considering cleaning up a couple pieces for the NT Review, and maybe, just maybe, putting together a chap book and sending it to a couple periodicals. I mean, it'll only cost me a stamp or two, right? Why not?
And I've grown my understanding of social interaction as much in the past three months as in the year previous to that, possibly much more. Maybe it's more helpful to say that all the seeds that Sam and David and I had been planting in my psyche over the past several years have suddenly had an amazing growing season. It's been hard to deal with in a lot of ways. Actual compassion and insight aren't always gentle, easy things. They often mean accepting that people just don't fit together, or aren't giving each other anything good, and no one is at fault and no one is to blame, but everyone is hurting all the same. That part isn't so fun. But recognizing it sooner can only make me a happier, healthier person, not to mention a better friend. This is why I say understanding of social interaction and not just social skills, but really neither of those really captures what I'm getting at here. Awareness and self-possession have a lot to do with it, as do social grace and confidence.
And the most amazing thing to me is that all that interpersonal stuff, the social skills I've agonized over and the compassion I've always been burdened with/lauded for/confused by... it's the exact same thing that will make me a better writer. Because it's all about the exchange of information between human beings, and writing is just a narrow, focused version of the same.
In truth, I'm mostly communicating with myself right now. That's what I created this space for, after all. And there are a handful of people who have access to these words and will know that they're mine, and I'm aware of those individuals as I type, as I read through to make sure this is lucid and not riddled with typos. Is Lain still following after my two year hiatus? Has David finally decided to come check all of this out? Will Jacob or Laura have anything to say in response to all this? There is some potential for inter-personal exchange here, and that's what motivates me to get this all down instead of letting all these ideas chase themselves around my head all night. I think in the long run, though, the real value will be in having a snapshot of where my thoughts were running in the first few days of 2010, as I waited for my body to heal and my heart to... Huh.
What am I waiting for my heart to do? Heal? Be happy? Just pick itself up by the bootstraps and miraculously feel happy about the same things that have made me sad for so long? I would very much like to be ready to start trusting again, but that's a complicated, scary thing. I'm becoming more aware of my tendency to distrust, and that can only be helpful. Am I waiting to stop loving David? I hope not, because that would be a fairly stupid thing to do, seeing as I don't particularly want to. Maybe what I'm waiting for is the knowledge that there's room in my heart for new things and people, and that it won't be a betrayal to the people I've loved in the past when I start to move on. That he's not betraying me by moving on himself.
Well. This ended somewhere very different than where it started. I'm fairly certain that if I try to continue on from that last thought I'll circle back around to melancholy, and frankly I'm just not interested in that. I love him and I miss him, but there's a hell of a lot more to me and my life than those two little facts. What else? See above.
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