You might have to say, "Im So Angry"

Lately I have been harboring a hatred.

In the process of being a Mature and Well Rounded young woman, i usually define my progressions of growth by my ability to let go of anger and be at peace with something or someone. But this time, with this specific person, i fervently and adoringly have abandoned this pervious notion of goodwill and bullshit for something that has been far more useful.

"Moving on" is too fluid, its too clean and wavey. It cannot be used to anything, it is a neutral state of being and a careless one. Good for things that actually matter. Good for times when stability is the best answer. But when you live in a college town, racked with instability and ridiculousness, moving on doesn't fit in. It doesn't quite do the job. it doesn't give you that sweet, perverse satisfaction.

Meanwhile hatred can be gleaned and harnessed. It can be carefully nurtured until it is as beautiful and edgeless as a pearl. It is a much more interesting way to pass the time, daydreaming gruesome scenarios of acid shits and monumental failure than a potentially happy ending that in all likelihood will never happen. A favorite authorial phrase, "Her features, once beautiful were now ugly, twisted with hate..." is such a lie. Such a quick insertion of myth to discourage the feminine reader from feeling excatly what she should if she wants to remain beautiful. fuck that. I have never seen a woman so beautiful as one that set her x boyfriends guitar on fire and danced blithely around it. Who were the hateful women: Ann, Marie, Cleopatra, Edie, Sara Palin. You may not like them, but no one can deny their appeal. God Bless the woman who fuels on hate.

With my newfound and surprisingly ongoing hatred, i have never been more productive. I have learned to control it, and enlist it when i want to feel powerful or strong. I know how to trigger it. I can rile myself to a state of happiness, diligence, snarkyness, bad-ass/ness...most things. It has become my all purpose emotion. Except for wallowing. One thing my hatred cannot do for me anymore is to allow me to wallow. Which sometimes i miss, bc a nice documentary and vodka tonic are two of my favorite things.

My hatred takes me running, its blow dries my hair nicely, sometimes even straightens it. It puts out my cigarette, it writes my papers and electrifies my readings, it talks to boys. It wears my best dress out. It is my newest and most interesting companion i have had in a while. It lets me know just when it feels badly, in the most exciting ways.

At the end of the day, when this is all a big joke, i will still remember the good times my hatred and i had together. When i eventually let it go, it wont be without a slight regret. But for now, while it is still intact, I couldn't be more enthused at the prospect of seeing red tonight.

Lo-uh-ving Yoo-oo

I've had a strange weekend.

Stranger yet, nothing was really that out of the ordinary.

I've also been pulling out the ex files. never a good sign. i vaguely remember that show, though. i remember it had slogans like The Truth is Out There, Trust No One, and my favorite I Want to Believe. its almost too ridiculous a refernce point, the close phonetic nature of ex and x, the horribly despondent connatations when applied to a failed relationship, and not a show about investigeting the paranormal.

perhaps relationships are un-normal things then; I dont think we are particularly cut out for whole and utter devotion to another homo, um, sapaien.

Love seems like a general reaction to things that are supposed to happen in your life. Losing your virginity on prom night, watching someone kneel infront of you with a shiny stone, wanting to have children, wanting a nice house with a nice person, cooking for two, laughing at a joke, apple pie, r&b songs, watching someone drive, losing, winning, eating, sex. It does not really seem to happen corporally, naturally, and of its own accord. I think we watch romantic comedies for the same reason we watch horror films, beacuse the perfect fit of two overly attractive individiuals is just as much a myth as Godzilla or a wind that makes people kill themselves. yes, kill themselves.


It is so hard to pin when and how you are going to feel...anything. Often times i see people in the midst of it, and i just see reaction, a big fat six month reaction that will eventually tire itself out once everything does not become a novelty anymore. Love is just a word for minor and fairly justifiable infatuation. Infatuation over sex, empathy, hair, ego, compainionship, mind fuck. all these great things that we are lucky to be able to react too.

Im not saying its a bad thing. In fact i think it is great to react often, and as passionately as you can. I just feel that saying i do, for ever and ever or expecting your love to trump all other facets of timeless life is probably an unwise choice.

that said, i have glady opened the ex files and lay in bed some nights dozing off to sleep in some stupid and embarrassigly kitchy alter scenario. and so badly, somedays do I Want To Believe

Enough

Lately i have been thinking a lot about self sufficiency. And when to call it quits.

Sometimes the greastest distance is that which you create yourself. its difficult to know if this distance is independence or self preservation. Its diffcult to even know when to protect yourself and when to feel something. Worst of all, the things that blindside you are often the ones leaving the pinkest scars.

You love someone or something for a reason. That reason is strong enough . It is strong enough to reconsider boundaries. To rework events. To renew perspective. It is strong enough to leave you shivering and all fucked up. It is strong enough to drive you drunk and up the wall.

Some reasons are enough.

But sometimes, they are the very things that make you sigh and then say, enough is enough

Kill me, Say Anything

I can't help it, i love listening to Say Anything. It feels like a guilty pleasure, something i should not enjoy. I wouldnt say i actually love the band himself, i dont really know much about them, their music isnt something i "identify" with, you cant really move to it, unless its the spastic dying remnants of hair metal head banging. oh shiver, the motion that comes coupled with a follow up bodily twist, jerking over from the waste up. woof.

i dont know what it is. their lyrics maybe. the snarky, lippy, grandly dramatic proclamations of self efficiency, sexual sarcasm, hyperbole? in my various litertaure classes i usually try to classify what gender i think will suceed in the class the most. last quarter it was british lit 1900-present,, and we read conrad, t.s. eliot, beckett, coetzee, forester, fucking james joyce. mostly small paperbacks with their various huge self aggradizing themes. Big old declarations of life, death, time, torture, and fate. The paralysis of spirtuality. The meaningless of life in a living death. Boys love that shit. i think, i mean i think they can get off specifically on the lack of neccessary specifical-ity that is required to pontificate on these various themes. its all gore and no restrictions. Mostly what you say sounds sound, and you can go bigger and better and newer, you are relatively limitless in your jecturing.

i, as identifying with the portion of population that has a vagina, dont love that shit. of course i appreciate, admire, and enjoy it, but it doesnt get me half as excited. what gets me all excited is something im too tired and preoccupied to discuss: but briefly,,, something about why there's always a window over the kitchen sink.

so anyway, say anything. i dont think i will ever stop listening. i love it. i dont think i fully understand, but it makes me laugh and feel cool. and i get it sometimes.

Dream Gallery

I am about to eat an entire bag of candy. It is alright, its the week of the dead. calories and indegestion are hand in pencil cramped hand. There is something stirring about academia on this week. I feel manically happy and then like my gut is about to be ripped out. its so much dread, then a joker laugh.

But it cannot be helped, dear reader, the times you get inspired. and even though it is seethingly inconvient, and i often have said inspiration when i also have three post-its full of tasks to complete, it is worth it to my indulgent, rippling self to scribe a few paragraphs worth.

ahem, ahem..... perhaps be paitent with me here, tonight.

I have a dream about this girl.

She is a beautiful woman. She is blindingly lovely some days. Sometimes you want to hold her face with your teeth so you have a piece of it. of beauty. but you couldnt bite down, you couldnt think of a taste. You'd just hold her perfect head in your insignificant jaws and it would be a great gift.

I have often felt unreal when in her presence. sometimes i fiercely want to be cradeled in her comforts, worn thinly inside a tshirt. have a telephone without her on the other end, tell it explicitly how much i am in awe, in passion, in disgusted reverance. walk side by side with a real live fence inbetween us, so i could feel a physical barrier. Throw a ball and a hankerchief over. Watch the spectacle. Be in love, and on a fence.

She is a talanted painter. she picks up the oils and smears them expertely. i see my jaw, a fist. i see the most beloved parts of myself, shinier and newer. She hangs them up and draws upon them perfectly. She shows your friends the gallery. You are so beloved, it says. They didnt know you were such a multifaceted person. i love you, i love you i love you i love you

She is a dream

In my dream she is also muted. It is not sudden, it is almost expected. You are coldly beautiful now. She opens her mouth and snakes and cockaroaches spill out. Multitudes. They are brown and the same looking, they wriggle and fly around dejectedly. On the other side of the fence, the grass is greener. she steps to the right and a purple flower blooms. a wasp twitches on its petals.

The gallery is on fire. Her paintings are intact, miraculously, but my face is charred. The canvas is there, but its image distorted. i pulled one off the wall, with fumbling and impossible motions tried to restore it. But it was just dust. i had to leave the others to burn.

This time i ran back to the fence. I scream to her, terrified. She looks at me, standing straight as a pole, her body magnificent and pale, upright on emerald grass. To her left, the flower is dead. Her clothes look stupid. Her hands are palms forward. In my dream i see her, guts out, heart halved, limbs askew; neck breaking, back bent, souless, nothing new. It is a war scene. It is the most terrifying thing i can picture. a branded child, fingerless Johnny, voodoo dolls, poison ivy, infant coffins, blue eyed Pecola..... But Again i see her as i really see her: pale, sturdy and alive, still-faced. Milky white, tears leave her eyes like the betrayal they are to her, but have never been to me. i can only watch them hit the ground. i can only watch her hair being pulled by the wind. each strand gets it own gust, flutters subtely, before it rests. even in muted horror, the quiet absolute terror of home, she is beautiful.

I go back to the gallery, exhausted. I forget about the snakes and remember a flower, her smile, her hands. i lay down on the floor and cover myself with the ashy remnants of what used to be my face. I sleep for as long as i can bear to.

I dont know how long she stands on the other side of the fence. When i wake up she is painting above me, and my friends are rebuilding the gallery. She looks down and smiles like i have brought her great happiness. Above the racket i can hear the wasps humming.

The Foolishest Girl

I thought sometime last weekend i was going to throw a drink in someone's face. it never happened. im slightly glad it did not, i am terribly afraid of looking like a silly jealous girl.

Often times when i am upset, i rework the events that have made me upset until i recognize some fault of my own. im blaming myself i can usually absolve most of my anger. the only people i manage not to do this with are my mother and people i am seeing.

With my mother, i am terrifically indulgent. YOU KILLED ME WHEN I WAS WINNING, YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE AN ORPHAN, DAD DOESNT LOVE US. YEAH IVE SMOKED WEED BUT AT LEAST IVE TOLD YOU. HOW MANY TIMES? LESS THAN FIVE...ITS NOT EVEN A DRUG. I DONT WANT TO TALK TO YOU FOR AT LEAST FOUR HOURS

with people that i am seeing/have seen/am not currently doing so, i am indulgent in diferrent ways. Its like noah and the whale say, i have only ever had a jealous kind of love; i guess it is emotionally sadistic. im finnicky and distracted, nervous than euphoric, always figeting, uncomfortable with a persistent nausea that makes me awfully unproductive. i must enjoy this emotional dyslexia because its a constant after a certain amount of time even with the most mediorcre of connections.

Not bad, but not love.

i think because it looks a certain way, a girl and a boy, a boy and a boy, a girl and a girl, that these feelings get triggered. Its just my natural bodily reaction. For instance, why in-an-out has a giant cheese oozing burger on their monumentous roadside advertisements. Visual to sensory, suddenly weary traveleer your mouth is watering and the 4.7 miles seems an eternity. Perhaps it doesnt even matter if you eat a peanut or a burger, if i meet an asshole or a wonderful person. They are corporal, in my phone, and i can look at pictures of how neat and funny they are on the internet. My mouth still waters. I still have indegestion.

The Germans have a saying, one of many. "Bemalte Blumen duften nicht."
Painted flowers have no scent.

I'll wait for my believable big, huge polleny bloom to get on over and give me an allergic reaction.

All you need is a Jingle

I think i am jealous of musicians.

Unfortunately, there are more people who are literate than people who know music. i have only met one person in my life who does not like music. She says she only likes songs that remind her of people. i guess its still indirect, but she has a connection to an arbitrary melody. and when she drives a freeway edged in green she sighs and thinks something indefinetly sentimental.

why is sound stored so completley, but we cannot remember the words that shape and define us. I was lucky enough to have my Michael Cunningham First Love moment a couple of years ago. there was no red tipped pirate queen, just a petite vietnamse professor telling me to watch my surveyor self. I tripped and fell for Toni Morrison's Bluest Eye, but i could not quote you a coherent sentence. When asked why i love literature i say toni morrsion. When asked why i love toni morrison i have to scramble for a copy.

i wish words were as memorable as your jingles. Poetry is fancier when set to a tune, "All you need is Love." What deaf person does not know that line, that voice, the rest of the stanza?,,,,..

What about "a patient etherised upon a table." ....?? anyone, ?

what the fuck do you mean all you need is love. Im sure you have an idea, Music God, but really, you dont even have to remember your analysis. If the public gets a slight explanation of your private genuis (on your mothers bathroom floor, in a subway station, sheltered from the rain :/, on an acid trip at Sands ) they/we wet ourselves with idiotic understanding. In the glossy, tight pants happy ending you dont have to explain yourself as the chorus rambles on:::; and beautifully, inexplicably (as someone who knows not a lick about music and tries, mostly unsuccessfully to have her life guided somewhat by past and current wordmiths and visionaries) i am calmed. you are correct, insect men, all i really do need, is love.

while poor eliots infamous line sits mostly unknown and unexplained. it is such a remarkable insertion of anti romantic description, that even now, as a memeber of a generation where best friends refer to one another as cunts and whores, fuckers and bastards; i am still awed. romance and modernsism. my mistresses eyes are nothing like the sun. we are all one, unoriginal, bodily mass.

So all you independet visionaries with homemade apple pie recordings and remarkably interesting lyrics, Allow me and my fellow bloggers our chance to post our words. In the battle of affecting, you will win everytime, but here on our little anonomys pedastals is a chance for someone to waste their time on us. we will never have eliots reverberations. We will never have The Beatles adorations and history-altering capabilities. But we do have our minute chance of publication, of vouyerism, of motivation to keep reading, keep writing. so there, keep strumming smug svelte syndocated bastards. I will be racing you note for note.