Pretentious

I was feeling rather down for most of today. Feeling out of sorts or down usually prompts me to examine my gut and figure out what's causing the problem. Today was no different and thus I spent a good majority of my solitary driving time lost in thought. I seemed to be no closer to understanding my sadness (though a great deal sadder for all the trying) when a very clear thought cut through the noise:

I want to be

• The sort of person who has an endless supply of patience-
• The sort who can simply listen and validate others without needing to press her own worth-
• The sort who sees the inherent and genuine good in all she meets-
• The sort who knows intrinsically that she is a thing of value, and thus doesn't have to constantly seek validation or value from her surroundings. . .

In short, I want to be super-human.

I am continually frustrated by my shortcomings. I know the argument that one's shortcomings provide the lessons for one's journey. I even believe that argument, but that doesn't mean it's fun to live through the times of utter humanity. Well, at least not always.

I get so tired of growing. I find myself longing for things, for status, for roles, and for people that I somehow believe will fulfill me. I self-righteously proclaim that I know things cannot fill me or make me feel whole. I know. I've heard about the AA god-shaped hole. I'm not 'simple-minded' enough to believe that getting the job, car, house, etc. will make me happy or finally put me at the level where I can sit back and relax til check-out time.

No, not me. I know that that stuff is all empty if you don't have awareness or actualization or whatever other big word I choose for the day.

I clearly know everything, so how is it that I find myself longing for the day when my career will be launched- with the direct expectation that such a day will surely bring with it a sense of total completion in that arena of my life? I find myself thinking of an imaginary future significant other who will not complete me (that would be silly!) but will give me a sense of arrival and I won't feel lost ever again?? Because that's totally different from being completed by a partner, right?

I find myself thinking that the things and people I long for will push me into the next stratosphere, where I will no longer feel down at times and where I will not have to work so hard at hiding my humanness. And in the same thought I look down my nose at others who believe that someday a partner will make them feel whole.

I smell hypocrisy. . .

The funny thing is, I go through a lot of extra hoops trying to avoid thinking that I'm better than others. I spend a lot of time looking for how I am related to others- our commonalities, our shared trials. I abhor the idea of thinking oneself better than others. . . and yet I do it all the time.

I see someone sneer at a homeless person as ze passes by, and I stiffen my neck a bit. I watch lovers quarrel over something petty and my eyebrows shift slightly while the corners of my mouth raise the tiniest bit. A hundred times every day I make split second comparisons between myself and the people around me, and when I decide that I come out ahead, I feel pleased.

Once upon a time I based these comparisons on things like how one dressed or who one's friends were or what books one read (ok, I still do this sometimes), but basically I compared your external status frills with mine. This is not how I think so much today- which is probably why I'm so darned self-righteous. See? See Me? I don't judge whether I'm better based on socioeconomic level! Or style! Or culture!! HaHAH! I have graduated beyond such pettiness and have moved on. . . to the same pettiness re-packaged based on where you are on your personal journey.

Instead of judging your clothing or what you scored on the last test, I've moved on. How grateful are you? Really?? How much do you take your anger out on others? Are you more honest than me? Damn!

And this is better somehow? *sighs*

Why am I so obsessed with the idea of better? The concept of 'better' by definition requires a comparison, which just leads to trouble if you're trying to be at peace on your journey. I acknowledge that sometimes comparison can be a truly helpful thing -it can be a powerful motivator- but the flip-side of that coin is the possibility of obsessively looking to others to gauge whether or not one can be happy, and that is a foolish method of trying to attain any sort of meaningful or lasting joy.

I guess this is really just me trying to hold myself accountable. I'm putting it out there that I know, deep down, that I'm not actually holier than anybody. I also realize that I am my own harshest critic, despite all my countless pep talks and lectures about being gentle with the self.

I just have to continue to remind myself: It's ok that I'm not a super human. Though I wouldn't mind being able to fly. . .

Currently Reading: Bird By Bird

Just Desserts

Today I was going through a notebook from two months ago. I found the following:

I deserve to be more than a rebound. I deserve to be with someone who takes care of hirself. I deserve someone who wants to be sober for a good portion of hir life. I deserve someone who loves hirself. I deserve someone intelligent and optimistic. I deserve someone who generally thinks well of people. I deserve someone who wants me for me, not for my being hir not-ex. I deserve to be with someone who takes joy in the world. I deserve to be with someone who is a great dancer.

This sentiment seems particularly poignant lately. I have always settled on lovers who do not fit this description, and not just because of the dancing bit (which, by the way, refers to taking great joy in dancing and not actual skill). I have long felt as though I were starving for acceptance, such that I have attempted to sustain myself with partners who were neither compatible nor appropriate.

Trying to squeeze blood from a beet and all that.

The thing is, though, I haven't been starving for acceptance for a long time. I've had an amazing community for several years now- women and men who are there for me both when I need them and even when I don't. Almost a year ago I realized for the first time that not only do I like myself, but I think I'm pretty fantastic. Life is great, and I am terribly excited about the future.

So when I look back over this summer and fall, at choices I made and situations I encouraged, I find it difficult to understand my overtly self-destructive actions. If I like myself, if I'm not anemic from lack of love, then why would I allow such an unhealthy liaison to flourish? Why did I put myself in the midst of what I knew, even then, to be an ill-suited situation?

The reason is that I have never stopped to acknowledge that I'm not starving anymore. To continue with the food analogy: I remember once reading a dieting tip in a magazine suggesting that one eat more slowly, as it takes 20 minutes for your stomach to send the message to your brain indicating that you're full. There's a time delay and if you don't realize that you're full you'll continue to nom down on whatever's on your plate. . . maybe you'll even add more.

Which is not to say that I promote diets, but rather that there has been a serious time differential between walking about in the world with new-found self-esteem and self-respect and realizing this new state of being. I've been wandering about thinking I'm still empty when, in fact, I have all I need.

Which means I don't have to settle for shit.

. . .

I don't have to settle. I have the ability to think about what I deserve, not just what I need. I don't need a partner to make me feel special or loved or accepted. I deserve a partner who fits, and if a potential partner doesn't really fit, then I'm better off on my lonesome.

This is not marvelously easy to write, less easy to publish into the ether of the net, and far less easy to put into practice. However, I feel that it is true in the pit of my stomach, in that bit of viscera behind my belly button. I don't need a someone. I would like someone, but not just anyone will do. I deserve someone wonderful.

And I am willing to wait.

Lonesome Quotations

I needed, need, to be loved. To be loved for me. I am so scared of this. Scared that I will never allow it. Scared that if it comes it will disappear. That I will learn it wasn’t love. Or it wasn’t for me. Or that it was only for me if I wasn’t really me. Because when I let people see me, the real me that is- when I let people see the unkempt, un-brushed, teary-eyed, scared, desiring of love and support me, they realize that I am unlovable. Not even unlovable, perhaps, but that they do not love me. That I am loved only for the false impression people have of me and if I ever dare to let a little bit of the inside out I will become as unappealing as I was first attractive.

(quoted anonymously with permission)

While reading this tonight I was struck by how personally it comes off. Sentiments like the above always seem so individual and intimate, yet I am amazed by their universal nature. It's odd to think about how prevalent these feeling are amongst large populations. By prevalent I don't mean that large groups of people feel utterly lonely and unloved for most of the time, but that in a large group of people, odds are that a vast majority of them have felt as isolated and lonely as the above narrative indicates.

In other words, when one realizes such feelings one feels alone in the world (at least this is true in my experience). One looks about and sees others in the world carrying on as though nothing has happened, which of course only amplifies those feelings of lonesomeness. In those moments one feels as though no one could ever comprehend the depth of one's isolation.

This is the amazing part: for rather than finding such isolation as incomprehensible, one discovers that the experience of longing for real love is entirely universal. We all of us desire to be loved for who we are. And so many of us have had times of great distress wherein we could not find such love or comfort. These feelings are not so rare- in truth, I think most people experience feelings such as these from time to time.

I am reminded of a passage from one of my favorite stories, The Velveteen Rabbit:

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When A child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Other than the bit about not minding being hurt once you are Real, I adore this passage. It's comforting to read. Especially tonight, a time I will admit to feeling lonesome. Loneliness is inherently an individual experience, but there is something magical about the discovery of loneliness as a common thread.

I'm not sure that there's anything more for me to say at this point, so instead of dragging this narrative out I bid thee adieu.

Old and New Words

Last night I found a manila folder filled with old writings. I of course paused in my attempts to organize the moving leftovers so that I could flip through my old thoughts. This excerpt in particular caught my attention:

Part of me still longs, just a little, for the sordid comfort of expected unhappiness. At least it is expected and fulfilled. Even if I am unhappy, I know that I am going to be unhappy, and there is a sick sort of satisfaction in the completion of such endeavors.

Today. Today it was that I walked up a hill and struggled for breath. Another day in which the things I did made no waves in the pond, during which the most I did was philosophize and drink coffee. There's something supremely beautiful about surrendering to my path, not that that's what I've entirely done. I still fight the journey, stupidly, kicking and screaming at times. When I can walk through the cloudiness and wander wherever it is that I find myself, those days I am beautiful. I don't stop to think about what is beautiful or ugly or what I'm going to do in an hour. I sip at my latte and read a childrens book and think about words that sound nice. Why would anyone long for an existence other than the only one they could have? Why do I?

Words elude me. When I have something profound to write, words never appear. When I have an agenda for my thoughts or writings, the words are scattered, uninspired. No matter what I do, how I orchestrate those thoughts, how I phrase the chosen descriptions, I am unable to be original. Everything I want to say has either been said before or never needs to be said. This is what I feel when I finish a new bit of prose. Poems say so little concretely, and this is perhaps my attraction to them.

Why do I want to write so badly? I could write anything if I were interested enough in any one concept, if I could sustain an interest. As it is, I continue to write because something within me cries to have a voice. I will write until it finds the words it seeks.

Something about this entry fascinates me. It was the phrase "Today. Today it was that I walked up a hill and struggled for breath" that caught my eye in the first place. Still it resonates in my mind with more fervor than it has any right to inspire. I don't think I meant these words to say what I am now reading them as.

Today. Today [again] I struggled for breath as I walked uphill. I wrote these words maybe two years ago, and I still need to express them today.

Another intriguing (if I may be so bold) excerpt:

The art of falseness predates my memory, and it has been both my salvation and crucifixion. Though I'm not so good at it anymore after the years of therapy and my new-found repugnance to all things plastic, I wield my only social defense shamelessly whenever I feel threatened by the prospect of [a former lover's] presence. Falseness and pretension are my only methods to compensate for the bile that rises [in hir presence] like so many dogs salivating for bells.

After spending so much time avoiding my shell-like tendencies, I renounced the façade and embraced the real. I- the sad, sorry, velveteen girl made really real- have cultivated my personality, my capacity to love, and the integration of the two with my outward appearances. I've done so much for myself. ME Me me mememe. I am amazing. I am a wonder. It's a wonder they haven't created an international holiday to celebrate me and my genuineness yet.

I really love this bit. I love the venom I save only for myself. And just revel in that writing! I mean, crucifixion? Really?? Insert a thinly veiled Pavlovian reference- was I serious? And did I just throw 'façade' into prose that is pretending to be unassuming? I tried *so hard* to be clever, but all it turned out to be was contrived. Uckghe. Despite the crassness of the allusions, though, I think the underlying sentiments are fairly accessible. I was (and am) so unforgiving of my own humanity.

To give a bit more context, the lover mentioned was such an odd person. I had been in the midst of such chaos and had been seeking companionship, and had found myself lightly involved with someone who made me feel sick to my stomach once I had the ability to look at hir without the blinding intoxication of chaos. I was so embarrassed to have even thought about liking hir.

And I was utterly unable to forgive myself for being human, for needing companionship, for feeling lonely. In many ways I wish I could visit that self and give her a hug- tell her that everyone has a need to be loved. I was so completely starved of attention, affection, and love during that time, and I sought fulfillment of the need for such things any way I could. I'm sad that I was ashamed of my needs.

It's amazing to read such words after such a period of time. To be confronted with tangible records of how much I have changed and what issues remain with slightly different wording is a sobering experience.

I know that I am growing, it is just sometimes a bit slower than I thought it would be. I have faith in the general arc of progress that I am on. And now I have a folder of amusing anecdotal writings with which to bolster my appreciation of the improvement in my writing. Though that has a long way to go as well. . .

Suffism and Giving Up

I've been having a time of it.

Walking back from school this morning, after having been locked out of my first history exam by an obtuse 5 minutes (my own damn fault), I decided to give up.

I have been attempting to give up for at least a month now, and I sincerely hope that this is NOT just another attempt, but in fairness the genuineness of this give-up is not really my responsibility. I was walking down Broadway, stuck in my own head full of self-recrimination and anger, when I suddenly realized that I can't do this. Any of it. I am not able to deal with life as such- lonely, confusing, impossible, standard-driven, ridiculous. I can not cope; the best I can do is spiral downward into a self-shaming puddle of embarrassing goo.

I walked a little farther before realizing- with an almost maniacal laugh- that I don't have to do any of it. Why do I have to make everything such a struggle? What am I so worried about?? I can just GIVE UP!!! If the universe wants stuff done, then the universe will have to do it, because I'm sick of blaming myself for not doing the impossible.

(ahem, by 'give up' I am in no way intimating an immediate withdrawal from classes or a reticence to fulfill regular duties. I am giving up on worthless struggling)

Last night I was reading a book my boss/friend recommended, The Drama of the Gifted Child, when I started to cry. I was so surprised by this. After all, I've had a lot of experiences in my life, but I've been through therapy, and I've talked through my stuff til my eyes were dry. I think I thought that I could get it over with once and be done, but life has added new layers to old hurts. And new actions have greater meanings. I realized that my neurotic episodes of late have been symptomatic not just of the transition inherent in moving cross-country alone, but of a greater underlying problem. Or problems.

Recent experiences and growth and change are allowing for a greater understanding and examination of myself. And I can't do it alone. Goddess knows I spend all my time on public transit in self-'discovery' or other such nonsense, and it always devolves into the stern voice in my head upbraiding the weakness within. Those silly human bits, you know- the ones that continuously have feelings. When I realized that an old habit, a perverse habit from my dark ages, is still hanging out in fully fledged form, I felt truly frightened.

This is when I thought that maybe I ought to think about starting therapy again. It would be so helpful to get out of my head during these times. I need to. I immediately thought about how much therapy would cost in New York, and how impossible an option that was until-

Wait-

I have health insurance! How bizarre. I am arbitrarily allowed affordable help for my mind because my dad works for an insurance company. I'll take it. I need it.

When I got back home after missing my exam, only newly resolved to give up, I sat down to read a little Rumi. I certainly needed a little enlightenment. I flipped the book open to a random page, as I usually do when looking for a little help, and I'll be damned if the following wasn't exactly what I turned to:

Cry Out in Your Weakness

A dragon was pulling a bear into its terrible mouth.

A courageous man went and rescued the bear.
There are such helpers in the world, who rush to save
anyone who cries out. Like Mercy itself,
they run toward the screaming.

And they can't be bought off.
If you were to ask one of those, "Why did you come
so quickly?" he or she would say, "Because I heard
your helplessness."
Where lowland is,
that's where the water goes. All medicine wants
is pain to cure.
And don't just ask for one mercy.
Let them flood in. Let the sky open under your feet.
Take the cotton out of your ears, the cotton
of consolations, so you can hear the sphere-music.

Push the hair out of your eyes.
Blow the phlegm from your nose,
and from your brain.

Let the wind breeze through.
Leave no residue in yourself from that bilious fever.
Take the cure for impotence,
that your manhood may shoot forth,
and a hundred new beings come of your coming.

Tear the binding from around the foot
of your soul, and let it race around the track
in front of the crowd. Loosen the knot of greed
so tight on your neck. Accept your new good luck.

Give your weakness
to one who helps.

Crying out loud and weeping are great resources.
A nursing mother, all she does
is wait to hear her child.

Just a little beginning-whimper,
and she's there.

God created the child, that is, your wanting,
so that it might cry out, so that milk might come.

Cry out! Don't be stolid and silent
with your pain. Lament! And let the milk
of loving flow into you.

The hard rain and wind
are ways the cloud has
to take care of us.

Be patient.
Respond to every call
that excites your spirit.

Ignore those that make you fearful
and sad, that degrade you
back toward disease and death.

This made me laugh and cry almost at the same time. "Give your weakness to one who helps". As though my needing help is a gift and not a burden. What a message to, ahem, ruminate on.

I must at this time go to work. I'm not sure how this will all turn out, but it's kind of nice to give oneself a break after all of the intensity.


Currently Reading: (actually just finished) Ruby Fruit Jungle

An Internal Conversation

*Warning* This entry is long, but I believe it is worthwhile. Read when you have more than 2 minutes (but hopefully less than 10!)

Last night I suddenly hit a wall with regards to patience. I have spent so much time in self-analysis that I think I've gotten sick on it. I'm terribly frustrated and full of self-judgment.

And why, you may ask, am I judging myself?

I am relentlessly flinging mean thoughts at myself because I keep catching myself flinging mean thoughts at others. I'm judging myself for judging the world. Well, not exactly the world, that's perhaps a bit too much hyperbole, but only just.

This tragicomedy began in earnest on Tuesday night, in my humanities class. We are currently studying Thomas More's 'Utopia', a work that has vast discussion/debate possibilities, in my debate-thirsty-opinion. Private Property, Corporate Greed, The Prison System, Communal Accountability, Shared Humanity, Class, Privilege- these are all discussion topics that could be gleaned from Book I of 'Utopia'. And with an initial gratitude (and a retrospective one as well) I watched as the professor led our circle of students into discussion, only to be horrified by the results.

I found myself deeply entrenched in a debate that flitted between the practical and the philosophical from sentence to sentence (which is in itself annoying when you are trying to make a clear argument). This was not horrifying, only tedious- navigating a discussion of humanity's potential intermingled with a discussion of humanity's present state. The horrifying part came in when we started talking about the concept of greed. I believe that More contends that Greed is one of the most destructive forces at work in 'modern' society, and I agree with him. My fellow students (not all of them I'm sure, but a vocal majority), however, could not seem to get beyond the idea that what they had in their life they had earned completely on their own merit.

Now, admittedly, this doesn't sound too horrid, but when one carries this statement to its logical reverse it sounds much worse. If a person has exactly what they deserve- the fruit of their own labors- then a person who lacks fruit does so because of their own laziness. The poor people of the world, and especially in the proximate United States culture, are poor because they aren't smart enough, haven't worked hard enough, or they just don't want it enough. This is the way the system works. You work hard, you get rewarded. You slack off, you starve. Or you just don't get the big mansion, because as everyone knows, people who own mansions have done proportionately more work in their life than people living in public housing. Definitively. This system works and is fair, damn it! After all, as one student said, he's 'not jealous of the guy who has a BMW, because [the student] didn't work for that'. Not only was there no acknowledgment of privilege or classism, there wasn't even the faintest comprehension that such things could possibly exist.

My fairly educated guess is that I'm the eldest student in the room by a solid 4 years, a span of time that can admittedly change much for a person's perspective and place in the world. Here's where the judgment demons (and their reactive judgment-of-judgment demons) entered the picture, for I immediately found myself battling internal conflict.

Can you believe those kids?

They're not kids, they're adults.

No they're not, they're 19!

Hey, when you were 19 you thought of yourself very much as an adult an-

I know, but-

-d got quite pissed off when people dismissed your voice because they thought of you as a kid.

YES, but these kids-

People-

OK, these people are ignorant and obtuse!

Well, maybe.

Maybe?

Ok, they are, but that's no excuse to get all Ageist on them.

Wait- was I being ageist???

Um, yes. Extremely. You were judging them because of their age.

But. No. Um. I mean. . .

Grrrrrrrr

Ok, so I may at some times play the hated 'age card', and I'll admit that that's wrong-

Good. That will be 50 lashes and 2 Hail Marys.

Wai- What?

You heard me. (Oh I do love a good flagellation!)

But- that's not helpful! OR productive!

Maybe not, but it sure does feel good to feel bad!

Wait- I have more to say!

*sighs* What?

It's just that, well, ageism acknowledged, these people are still being selfish!

That may be true, but you can't blame it on their age without negating your arguments from when you were 19. So let's just skip it and move back to the whipping!

But why?

Why the whipping?? Because it's so deliciously human! Don't you love loathing yourself???

Ugh, I don't know. This obsession with whipping and soul-mutilation is disgusting. At any rate, that's not what I meant. Why would blaming my classmate's ignorance on their being young negate my younger arguments?

Because if you decide to disregard their self-centered opinions just because they're younger than you, then you're doing the exact thing you used to rant about so vehemently.

Really?

Yes. And didn't you just scold an elder for this two days ago?

*ashamed panda* yes.

A-HA!!! More hypocrisy to be shamed for!!!! (it's going to be an absolute party later!!!!!) Though if you must discuss it, what can you blame their lack of awareness on? It's not as though they're 8 years old and have seen none of the world.

Well, no. That's true. But. . . but. . . they probably haven't experienced any of the world!

But they're 19! They've been on this planet for 19 years!! How is that possible???

Uh, they're conservatory musicians-?- They've probably spent at least half their life in a practice room. Alone. With a dead white man's scrawling and a lonely piano.

But that would mean they've spent almost no time actually experiencing the world-?-

Exactly.

But. . . that's preposterous. How can their musical endeavors impact a world about which they know nothing??

EXACTLY.

And why would they even CARE to impact it?

You See?? They probably don't. They might want to perform in it. Show off. Be on center stage.

Surely not ALL of them.

No, of course not ALL of them. But a damnable majority of them. Especially in class.

And you WANT to be a part of this world???????? You're CHOOSING it????????

This is the point at which my head began to go a bit fuzzy. Surprising though it may be that this fuzziness didn't take precedent sooner, it came lurking in with a heady vengeance at this point.

Why AM I going into this world? I have always refused to spend my life in a practice room. Though I've been blessed with the aptitude to not have to spend years of my life repeating scales (ugh, bo-ring), I have also always rebelled against the very concept of forfeiting my life for a technique that might someday be imbued with genius. I've just never thought of it that way.

Why DO I sing? I am a musician going into the world of opera. I am an activist with goals and philosophies that hopefully lead toward the continued evolution of some sort of justice in this world. Opera and Social Justice- judging from the culture of my class the other night this seems like a complete non sequitur.

And yet I believe strongly that it is not. Or at least that it doesn't have to be. Music at its most empowered can be such a redemptive force. It can be an art form rife with thought and change and the ability to challenge the status quo. It can enable people. Music can make a person think and feel and speak. It gives a language to grief and anger and joy in a way that words alone can not. Music can, and does, change the world.

Opera is a conduit for the exploration of feelings; the inner motivations of humanity are the very soul of the art form. It is not simply a glorious show for which one should dress up and spend exorbitant amounts of money. It is a shame that this is often how it is viewed. It is even more shameful that this viewpoint has shaped opera into the flaccid art of the aristocracy that it is in many communities, but opera is not beyond redemption. There are strong, active movements to make opera an accessible art form, and this is the creative world I hope to enter.

I want to be a part of opera for the hope that I can make a difference in the world through a craft that encourages self-exploration. Unexamined feelings at work in the world are dangerous indeed. I think that an art form that encourages emotional honesty and growth is inherently a positive force.

And with this renewed sense of self, of trajectory, I find myself less desiring of that flagellatory appointment. It's amazing to me that I can sink so quickly to shaming myself, which always turns into a complete waste of time, both in that it takes time and energy to feel bad about myself, and it takes even more time and energy to then pull myself back out of that funk. What if I could bypass the 40 lashes stage and just move onto changing what I don't like about myself? Wouldn't that be revolutionary. Ha.

At least for today, I feel redeemed. I feel a renewed sense of patience for myself, for my ever-present faults, and for the fact that it takes time to grow and learn. It's funny how that happens.


Currently Reading: Skinny Legs and All

Recently Finished: Mozart in the Jungle: Sex, Drugs, and Classical Music by Blair Tindall

**I am unable to link to the above book from school, as the page has been blocked by the censor. . . This book is about a former student at MSM, and it is full of lascivious information about the music industry. It's autobiographical, and I am a bit disturbed that I am unable to look up any information about the author or the book from school. DAMN CENSORSHIP!!!!!**

This American Life is Sustaining Me

I just finished the third coat of paint on two of my bedroom walls. Red. As in a fiery maple leaf, or a delicious tomato, or. . . ketchup? The cheap kind, not the deep maroon of heintz or hunts, but with an almost orange hue akin to ball park condiments. You might ask what color I chose for the other two walls-

. . .


Yellow.


My room might appear to have been decorated with kitchen sauces by the time I'm done. At least it won't smell like said deliciousness. Mmm. . . vinegar. . . salt. . . smells that last.

Which leads me to the thought of the smell in my apartment building's hall. Putrid seems an accurate term. Let me preface this by explaining that New York has been rather warm since I arrived Monday. Yesterday the fire hydrants in my neighborhood had been turned on, an action I'd seen in movies but doubted happening in the course of normal life. At around 90 degrees in a large city, though, I suppose one does what one must to detract from the oven like sensation that clings to everything.

Ovens are delightful when they're put to good use. They bake delicious things, creating a waft of tantalizing scents, tempting one to hang about and steal a wayward cookie. The hallway of my apartment building is not baking cookies.

The smell is somewhat akin to a combination of ashtray and greasy potatoes. I'm not sure if you have ever noticed the difference between cigarette smoke and an ashtray, but let me assure you that the difference is vast and the ashtray wins the award for most obscene.

Climbing three flights of stairs in the midst of such delightful company is not particularly comforting. Or welcoming. I'm sure that this experience will fade as the following things happen: (1). The weather becomes less kiln-inducing, (2). The follicles in my nose die a little from having lived in a large, smelly city, (3). I become so used to living here that I associate the smell of baking garbage with homecoming, (4). I acquire an actual room to live in so that coming home is a happy and relaxing event and thus don't mind trudging through disgusting odors to visit my oasis.

With regards to (4), I must explain that I have a room, but it is in all sorts of disarray. I am not living in my room, but rather in my roommate's room. It's sort of like camping out in a closet. There's nowhere to sit and hide on the internet (I'm writing this on the floor. My butt has gone numb). There's nowhere to lie down and watch a movie.

None of these things are the end of the world, but for someone who relies on a solid sense of home, who has been without her own stable, personal space for more than 2 months, and who is in the midst of a stressful transition, this is incredibly frustrating. All I want at this moment is to have a comfortable refuge from the difficulty of finding my way in a foreign world.

I mean, I don't even know where to get a good cup of coffee. I have to go exploring, discover new lands and new comfort zones just to find a caffeine fix. Which is fantastic- adventures are exactly what I wanted. However, I have to do the same thing when I get 'home'. There's no marginal space for me to feel at ease or at peace or comfortable. My surroundings are not very supportive.

Inner Peace, babe. It's a struggle.

I know that this will all pass. I know it's part of the big experience of moving and being 24 and trying to make sense of this world. I know in my head that this will get better. But in my gut, I can't help but feel a little twinge, wondering if this risk, this GIGANTIC risk, was worth it.

I think about the story my grama told me about the time she tried to move to New York. She got off the train and looked around, which was precisely when she realized that she didn't know what she was doing. She didn't have a job, or a place to stay, or friends. Her response? Run home. She stayed the night with friends of her mother, and then took a train home.

When my grama told me this story, I gave her a patronizing look. I attempted to be considerate and understanding, but inside all I could think was how stupid and weak she must have been. Why would she try to move to New York without making plans? Why wouldn't she stay?

The truth is this: I have made a LOT of plans in preparation for this venture. And though I have a place to stay, I am still unsure if things will work out. For the first time I understand my grama's decision to return home without a fight. In fact, I almost envy her the ability to admit defeat. Not that I have been defeated yet, as it's far too early to tell that, but I don't feel particularly fierce.

People have been telling me all summer 'how brave' I must be for doing what I'm doing. I've accepted their words, and scoffed inside, just a bit. Well, maybe a lot. Brave?? I'm not brave! It's not as though I had a choice to be sheepish. What else am I to do? This is just where I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do. It made sense.

But last night as I took a break from painting my room to go downstairs to the DingDong Lounge (I live above a bar. Sweet.) and have a pint, I realized just how scary this venture is. I could have stayed in San Francisco, where I know my way around, where all the great coffee is, and when free museum days are. I could have stayed in Grand Rapids, where my closest of friends live. Where my heart still beats outside my chest. Where I could probably finaggle a job out of friends and relatives. But I left.

And here I have no cushion. No financial cushion. No real social cushion. This is a big risk. I sat at the bar and drank my Brooklyn Lager and didn't talk to anyone. The act of sitting there, present with my fears, stepping outside of my door to challenge those fears, was enough for that moment.

Halfway through my beer a torrential downpour began. I watched as outside the trees were whipped about and rain fell in great glops. And though it's silly and selfish, I felt as though the rain was for me.

Somehow it made me feel safe.

Loneliness Vs. Alone

I spent last night very alone.

Now before you jump to any conclusions about the emo-centric possibilities of this post, give me a minute to explain. I was not lonely, I was absolutely alone.

At any rate, walking about on one's own at 3 in the morning allows plenty of time to ponder questions of existence. I found myself examining my solitude. I felt as though I were contemplating the edge of a very large pool of despair. I didn't want to dive into bitterness or cynicism or depression. I didn't even feel lonely, but I felt this great pull towards self-pity and emotional drama.

I was tired (ok, exhausted) and I'd been drinking, and I didn't have a place to stay for the night. I was alone, the stars were shining beautifully, everything was just as it ought to be, and I had a perfectly good backseat to sleep on when I arrived at my car. When I finally quieted the voices urging me toward the extremities of human emotion, I realized that I felt rather peaceful.

Then I worried that something might be wrong with me. I mean, culture (especially pop culture) is pretty clear about what being alone is all about. And in case you missed the memo, being at peace with oneself is not the point.

Being alone is in many ways an exercise in vulnerability, which is a devastatingly difficult state to find oneself in. The act of accepting one's own powerlessness in a situation, or acknowledging one's alone-ness, requires a certain level of honesty about how little one can control the circumstances of the universe.

The act of being alone in the middle of a difficult time makes a fierce statement, and it's one I'd really prefer not make as often as I do. Turns out, though, that the experience of being alone has such merit and is so-laden with perspective and growth that I must trudge time and again to the precipice of loneliness and peer in (either that or I've been too slow to learn the first bajillion times). I must again and again find that regardless of the number of friends I acquire, alliances I make, or promises I gather, there will always be a time when I have to stand on my own and breathe deeply without the solidarity of a best friend next to me.

To be clear, I really don't feel bitter about this. I'm not looking for pity or promises about 'the next time [I] feel that way'. Though I fully advocate building close friendships and calling on the strength of those friendships when times require it of you (I could not function in this world without them), I do believe that being alone, even within community, is still a primal part of the human experience. It doesn't matter how many friends you draw close about you, there will always come a time when the presence of others is neither enough nor appropriate. When it is time for me to be truly alone in the midst of trying times, I feel a wavering: should I sink into the fear of loneliness or maintain integrity? There is a panicked desperation in the attempt to stave off loneliness and this alone could force me into a catatonic curl. Do I give in and willingly plunge head first into a self-induced pity-party?

Or do I simply accept the alone-ness as it is presented to me? Being alone is not, in point of fact, that scary. I'm still me, the stars still rotate slowly across the night sky, and my true friends will still be there in the morning even if they're not present for the night. To look loneliness in the face and respond with acceptance is a defiant act, in my opinion.

Being alone is supposed to be the worst imaginable fate, but when you strip away the expectations of it, it isn't. I think the most terrible thing about being alone is how scared and overwhelmed we are by it and how we let those fears debilitate and control us. We have built a definition of being alone during tough times that necessarily implies abjection, and I utterly disagree with this definition. I think being alone is an absolutely healthy part of life.

And just to be clear, I'm not talking about being alone when you need to study or you need a break after work. I think most people would agree that such expressions are natural and healthy. I'm speaking to the alone time that we all desperately need to cope during times of stress or growth. During these times you're supposed to be continually surrounded by your partner, friends, and family. Which is not to say that you shouldn't lean on them during those times. But it should be acceptable to be without those people for a time as well.

All I'm saying is that being alone is not always the big scary monster I was taught it is.

Currently Reading: Cunt

Greetings

I hate the immensity of starting a new blog. There is a distinct lack of parameters, and this limitlessness constricts me much more than I'd like to admit. I've been thinking about beginning this blog (yes, another one) for a while. And though I've proclaimed that the reason I haven't is that I've surpassed my need for indecent emotional exposure, the truth is that I haven't begun because I haven't thought of anything sufficiently brilliant to post about. By sufficiently brilliant I mean by the standards of my perfectionist brain, which require that a first blog post at the very least end the Palestinian/Israeli conflict.

Ahem. My solution, therefore, is to create the illusion of continuity. So I'm about to re-post older blog entries from other sources. Then this page won't feel so lonely, and I'll feel less pressure to have created something already, damn it.

Cheers.

Currently Reading: Ship Sooner
(I also would like to keep somewhat of an ongoing record of what I've read, so please indulge my current reading endeavors)

October 2007

Can I be honest for a minute? Just a single minute right now- everything I write is crap. I write and I write and I writeandiwrite. And still. When I read again the things that I type I am ashamed. Let’s face it- I’m completely self-absorbed. All I write about is myself. My feelings. Situations I find myself in. And everytime I reread what I’ve written, all I can think is Who Would Want To Read This Crap? If a person didn’t know me, they would stop reading after the second self-indulgent phrase. Which would most likely come at the end of the first cadence. How is it that I can accept so completely the writings of others? When I read someone else’s story I accept it as at least valid almost immediately. At least most of the time. I don’t even accept my own writing. . .how can I expect anyone else to?
I saw writing on a garage in Berkeley a while ago that I’ve thought of often. I’m thinking of it now and shaming myself for being so egotistical. Someone wrote in big, white, spray-painted letters “Write for yourself and you’ll always have an audience,” right on the front of a shabby old house. I don’t even remember exactly where it is. Why do I crave an audience so much? Must I be exhibitionist? Do I want fame? Not exactly. I want to contribute something. AND I want to be able to live as I like to live. AND I think that if I had a posh audience I’d feel like my writing was more valid than I feel like it is now.
I know. Wrong answer. I can’t do it for anybody at all. Not even for me. I just have to do it. Whatever that means. Thanks. I knew that you’d listen. You always do.
You Know.