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09.30.2002 multiple choice time!Once again, I am up way too late on a Sunday night because:
09.27.2002 yay - ?I'm almost afraid to say it lest I jinx myself, but I think I've got a little of my joie de vivre back. 09.20.2002 I'm a barbie girl, in a barbie worldGotta love msn.com, replete as it is with handy articles about things like how to determine what you should be doing with your life. Based on the criteria of what consumes my thoughts, interests, and free time, I should be a professional, uh....(there really isn't a proper name for this, I think)...."relationship-haver". (I know, I was thinking "whore", too, but that oversimplifies it greatly.) Even my favorite toys suggest I was born to do nothing but start, stop, and perpetuate relationships, for better or worse, intentionally or un. Back when I was young and fanciful, I'd imagine little soap opera scenarios for my Barbie dolls in which they vyed for the affections of Ken, shallow and self-obsessed though he was. Ken's preening perfection -- or my perception of it at age 8 -- was such that I drew zits on his face with a black permanent marker to knock him down a peg (no kidding), but he was the only game in town, and my little plastic homegirls needed their lovin'. Sure, Han Solo eventually joined the ranks and bested Ken in everything but wardrobe choices, but he was devoted to Princess Leia, clumsily flat-footed and just as sartorially-challenged as he, so Ken remained the coveted prize amongst the 11" set. Haircuts, clothing changes, uneasy alliances, and access to the Dream 'Vette all revolved around the common and single-minded goal of turning one molded blonde head their way. Kind of fucked up for playtime, huh? And yet as an adult, using live dolls for my pantomiming pleasure, it seems normal -- expected, actually. Weird. 09.13.2002 kryptonite kocktailBeing superhuman can't be all that great. I say this because every time I have a hangover (which is rarely, actually), like most people, I seem to develop bionic powers. The tiniest sounds are magnified by 300%, my nose picks up smells in neighboring counties, subtle variations of color and light pop out like a Peter Max painting, and it's pure hell. I'm guessing that it's not virtue and duty that keep Clark Kent and Peter Parker from slamming back brews at the local pub, it's self-preservation. 09.05.2002 self-sufficientMaybe I shouldn't tell you this, but what the hell, we're all depraved, perverted friends here. Before I went to bed last night, I was reading this thing about dream interpretation, and it mentioned the theory that all the characters/things in a person's dream represent aspects of the dreamer him/herself. So off I went to sleep, and being the suggestible gal I am, promptly had a very saucy little dream in which I was making out with...myself! I was both me and the person with whom I was getting it on. And may I just say? I was hot! Some of the best nookie my subconscious has ever had. And you know what they say: learning to love yourself IS the greatest love of all. When I woke up, both of me needed a cigarette. psI liked the movie, by the way. And I slept with the lights ON! 09.04.2002 signsSaw Signs tonight. I wasn't expecting much, but by the end, I was crying, which is usually a good sign (no pun intended) with me and movies. Usually it means I was moved in some way, other than being upset about wasting $7+ on a bad flick. A little genuine spooky fear at work here, to be sure, but it was more the visit to an uneasy space in me between believing in the essential rightness of the universe and at the same time feeling wholly alone in it. As I coiled and cowered in my seat, I wished for a Someone to grab onto for reassurance, as if one strong arm was all it would take. I miss my ex. Not because of this movie...for no good reason, really, I just do. I wondered, when he came and when he left, why Fate would bring someone so broken and defensive into my life when I myself was just as fragile and armored. Maybe he sensed the sameness there, and on some unconscious level, thought I might know the way out of such despair. But I didn't, not then, and now, grimly educated as I was by this very heartbreak, it's surely too late. Still, I wonder if he made it through, or if he's still feeling that stark, sad aloneness that chills you no matter who is around. 09.03.2002 broken recordI've discovered a new way to evaluate the events of my personal life: Have I already written a song about this scenario? If so, then it's probably not all that noteworthy. Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it. Novelty seems to be the way to truly get my goat. (Be bold! Be original! Fuck me over in a Whole New Way!) That said, it really doesn't bode well for me if I'm singing the same sad song over and over again. In that case, I'm apparently not learning a damn thing from my mistakes, and more importantly, I'm not writing any new songs, either. just don't expect to get your bloody black backpack backA recent post on one of my favorite websites reminded me of a story I recently recounted to a friend about the time my tricycle was stolen. It was the summer of '73, the 'rents and I had just landed in Portland, Oregon by way of Chicago, and within days a band of thieves had spirited away with my little red 3-wheeler. Mom and I combed the grounds of our sprawling, sleazy apartment complex, found what looked exactly like my trike because it WAS my trike, and knocked on the door of the perpetrators to reclaim it. Like most criminals, however, these folks had a bold disregard for the truth, and they breezily claimed the tricycle was theirs, congenially mocking us with what we all knew was a lie. The kicker was, we just accepted their story, knowing it was false, and walked away. No argument, nothing. I think we even thanked them for their time. And the reason I bring this up is, in many ways, I've been reliving this scenario over and over again in different contexts, with different people and things, ever since. The tragedy of this story isn't that something important to me was taken away, but that I handed it over without a fight. And I think that's about enough of that. |
