I'll avert my eyes and pretend I don't see, put in my headphones and pretend I don't hear.
I graduate May 22, 2010. I don't know what comes next, but it's not more of the same, so that's a good thing. That's the only thing right now. I have all these people in my life that I don't talk to, or that I can't talk to, and that I don't feel safe around. People I'm supposed to trust and love and I've tried so hard for so long to find that trust and love -- but I just can't do it anymore.
I tried the "Fake it 'til you make it" campaign. The fact is, I was trying to make it to something I'm not sure I ever wanted. And I know they don't understand how it could be so difficult for me to find words, but I've felt like the woman in the song for as long as I can remember. I feel like people are trying temporary cures for a permanent problem -- the problem being me -- and they're trying to keep me here not because they want me here, but because they will otherwise feel like failures. But they want me to go back to being something I don't think I ever was. They want me to open up to them, to let them be a part of my life, but only insofar as that life fits with what they want from me, so long as that life is the tidy little package they want for me.
They want things for me that do well for them, but that don't do well for me.
And at some point you have to choose. Because you can't have both. And I think the world is saying it's my time.
So what's it gonna be? Roots or wings?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Ashes, ashes... we all fall down.
I didn't think about what it would look like if there was no wind. In my mind, there was always wind. But when it comes time to go through with it, the only thing that moves the water is the current of the river. When it comes time to watch the wind pick up the ashes and carry them over the water of the springs, there is no wind.
He falls into the water and sinks -- bone chips and carbon soot side by side -- and I wonder that I do not fall with him. The blues and greens of the Florida autumn reflect off the water like a a lyric in a James Taylor song, the sort that always makes me want to cry when I'm driving north, into the city, on 93 with my father. But a manatee reaches its snout up toward the sky and there's an insect hum behind me in the trees and everything feels so peaceful for a moment that it doesn't matter that the pale, pinkish ashes are smudged on my fingers and the last of him is creased into the sides of an Ikea tupperware.
I wish there was an alligator, to add an air of menace, or desperation. The manatees feel so normal, the large, soft angles of their scarred bodies rippling beneath the water that is always exactly seventy-two degrees. Manatees break so easily, chilled by cooler water or sliced by propellers, and their bodies show every white scar like military stripes on a young man's corpse. When I was a year old, they said he would never learn to walk again, that he could not train his legs to work on land or sea. I never knew him out of braces, without a wheelchair close by -- just in case! -- and a slow, crooked walk. But I never knew him not to walk.
I will pretend it was his left hand that I lost today. Perhaps at some point later on, I will lose his right hand, or his foot, and like that, piece by piece, he will disappear from me. Someday, I will lose his gash of a mouth, his coarse gray beard, his tired, slanting eyes. The braces will fall off his legs and he will hobble around, blind and deaf, but with me. Until eventually, all that I can keep from him will be the sound of his voice, the crack in my own as I say for the last time, "I love you; you have no idea how much." And when I lose that echo, when his, "Hello, dear!" finally fades away, then I will fall into the water with him and become silt. Still, but for the currents.
He falls into the water and sinks -- bone chips and carbon soot side by side -- and I wonder that I do not fall with him. The blues and greens of the Florida autumn reflect off the water like a a lyric in a James Taylor song, the sort that always makes me want to cry when I'm driving north, into the city, on 93 with my father. But a manatee reaches its snout up toward the sky and there's an insect hum behind me in the trees and everything feels so peaceful for a moment that it doesn't matter that the pale, pinkish ashes are smudged on my fingers and the last of him is creased into the sides of an Ikea tupperware.
I wish there was an alligator, to add an air of menace, or desperation. The manatees feel so normal, the large, soft angles of their scarred bodies rippling beneath the water that is always exactly seventy-two degrees. Manatees break so easily, chilled by cooler water or sliced by propellers, and their bodies show every white scar like military stripes on a young man's corpse. When I was a year old, they said he would never learn to walk again, that he could not train his legs to work on land or sea. I never knew him out of braces, without a wheelchair close by -- just in case! -- and a slow, crooked walk. But I never knew him not to walk.
I will pretend it was his left hand that I lost today. Perhaps at some point later on, I will lose his right hand, or his foot, and like that, piece by piece, he will disappear from me. Someday, I will lose his gash of a mouth, his coarse gray beard, his tired, slanting eyes. The braces will fall off his legs and he will hobble around, blind and deaf, but with me. Until eventually, all that I can keep from him will be the sound of his voice, the crack in my own as I say for the last time, "I love you; you have no idea how much." And when I lose that echo, when his, "Hello, dear!" finally fades away, then I will fall into the water with him and become silt. Still, but for the currents.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
I know my life would look all right, if I could see it on the silver screen
They are remaking East of Eden for a new generation of teenyboppers (am I the only one who still calls them teenyboppers and not the insidious and infuriating "tween"?)
Let's be clear about this. They are remaking an epic, multi-generational story of sibling rivalry and whorehouses that originally starred one of the most tragic and beloved movie stars of all time? (That's James Dean, for my peers who are woefully ignorant of film history -- even those film students whose exposure to him consist of seeing the "Chicky run" clip during a film class freshman year of college.)
A movie that was made into a mini-series starring Jane Seymour and the Bottoms in 1981 -- a mini-series that just doesn't hold up?
This story has more plot than Pride and Prejudice [the BBC version] and Titanic combined. And they've decided to remake it. To reboot it for a generation with the attention span of a gnat. It's a bold and brazen undertaking and I don't envy the producers or the screenwriters on this project.
One thing is certain: Casting is crucial. Casting will make or break this movie and determine whether or not one of the most iconic performances of all time remains shining and glorious in the Pantheon or if it is sullied by any foolish association to this new endeavor.
So I'm putting forth my suggestions for the casting directors.
Cal- Robert "The Scowl" Pattinson -- after all, the entire first half of Cal's story is basically, "ScowlscowlBEANSscowlscowl"
Aaron- Robert Pattinson (Hey, they're TWINS, right?), alternately, Michael Cera if producers are afraid that two Pattzies on screen at once might give teenage girls heart attacks
Adam- Tom Cruise.. he knows all about religious fervor.. alternately, John Travolta... I've always wondered what Adam say if he said it in song...
Charles- James Franco, natch... we really haven't seen him in any serious or intense roles and I think he's up for it. I'd like to see him push himself, emotionally. Plus, he thinks he's James Dean... Or Zac Efron. Whichever is good.
Lee- Is Mickey Rooney dead yet? Mickey Rooney it is!
Abra - Rewritten as twins, Abra and Kadabra, played by the Olsens, alternately, Lindsay Lohan as both Abra and Kadabra, if the Olsens' classes at NYU keep them too busy
Cathy- Megan Fox, OF COURSE... there's really no other option for the sociopathic, borderline personality disordered Cathy Ames...
Faye - (the madam that Cathy destroys) Heidi Fleiss -- it's time she was forgiven, I think
Sam Hamilton- Robin Williams, with a brogue
As for who should write the screenplay, I think the answer here is obvious: Jun-- I mean, Diablo Cody.
If this were fifteen years ago I would be angling for a screenplay by the Boston dreamteam (Ben and Matt) and arguing that they should play the twins, as well... but it's not. It's 2009.
Did you not believe me when I said James Franco thinks he's James Dean? Dammit, here's your proof:
All that savory goodness just a little too much? Need some medicine with that sugar? I offer you this study in contrasts.
Let's be clear about this. They are remaking an epic, multi-generational story of sibling rivalry and whorehouses that originally starred one of the most tragic and beloved movie stars of all time? (That's James Dean, for my peers who are woefully ignorant of film history -- even those film students whose exposure to him consist of seeing the "Chicky run" clip during a film class freshman year of college.)
A movie that was made into a mini-series starring Jane Seymour and the Bottoms in 1981 -- a mini-series that just doesn't hold up?
This story has more plot than Pride and Prejudice [the BBC version] and Titanic combined. And they've decided to remake it. To reboot it for a generation with the attention span of a gnat. It's a bold and brazen undertaking and I don't envy the producers or the screenwriters on this project.
One thing is certain: Casting is crucial. Casting will make or break this movie and determine whether or not one of the most iconic performances of all time remains shining and glorious in the Pantheon or if it is sullied by any foolish association to this new endeavor.
So I'm putting forth my suggestions for the casting directors.
Cal- Robert "The Scowl" Pattinson -- after all, the entire first half of Cal's story is basically, "ScowlscowlBEANSscowlscowl"
Aaron- Robert Pattinson (Hey, they're TWINS, right?), alternately, Michael Cera if producers are afraid that two Pattzies on screen at once might give teenage girls heart attacks
Adam- Tom Cruise.. he knows all about religious fervor.. alternately, John Travolta... I've always wondered what Adam say if he said it in song...
Charles- James Franco, natch... we really haven't seen him in any serious or intense roles and I think he's up for it. I'd like to see him push himself, emotionally. Plus, he thinks he's James Dean... Or Zac Efron. Whichever is good.
Lee- Is Mickey Rooney dead yet? Mickey Rooney it is!
Abra - Rewritten as twins, Abra and Kadabra, played by the Olsens, alternately, Lindsay Lohan as both Abra and Kadabra, if the Olsens' classes at NYU keep them too busy
Cathy- Megan Fox, OF COURSE... there's really no other option for the sociopathic, borderline personality disordered Cathy Ames...
Faye - (the madam that Cathy destroys) Heidi Fleiss -- it's time she was forgiven, I think
Sam Hamilton- Robin Williams, with a brogue
As for who should write the screenplay, I think the answer here is obvious: Jun-- I mean, Diablo Cody.
If this were fifteen years ago I would be angling for a screenplay by the Boston dreamteam (Ben and Matt) and arguing that they should play the twins, as well... but it's not. It's 2009.
Did you not believe me when I said James Franco thinks he's James Dean? Dammit, here's your proof:
All that savory goodness just a little too much? Need some medicine with that sugar? I offer you this study in contrasts.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The other side of the craziest night of my life *updated*
You may remember way back in February when I wrote a rather mean-spirited blog about the craziest night of my life. (Seriously, the entire thing was basically nothing more than out-of-body experience. 70-30, all-man, little fingers, etc.) Well, what I ought to have written about was the charming, lovely, little jewel that I discovered (for myself, not the world) that night.
You see, Tift Merritt is like a little doll. She wears pretty, floaty dresses and has blond ringlets. She plays the piano a bit like my guy - Jackson, that is - and has a truly beautiful voice. Her lyrics are just as timelessly endearing as her style.
I think what I love most about her is how solid she seems. So many female singers and writers nowadays seem like a good gust of wind would blow them and their music right into the clouds. Her lyrics are light and her music is upbeat, but it's also substantial stuff -- there's meat on the bones of her songs, whereas a lot of those recording artists who are so popular now barely have bones. More like some paper-thin skin. None of the Regina Spector breathy girlchild nonsense. She doesn't conform to what seems like the norm nowadays, which is to say she looks like a doll, but not a porcelain doll. There's nothing fragile about her, but she's very feminine and that's refreshing. You mean an artist who is both a girl and not angst-ridden or come-hither? Shocking. Even her songs about being broken-hearted aren't really about being broken. Illustration 1.1:
Her piano is jangling and dance-happy; these are songs you can't play sitting down. Folk undertones, striking notes both bluesy and jazzy with her surprisingly soulful voice, and seeming every bit the girl-next-door that I think she is aiming to be -- albeit the girl-next-door with a real knack for metaphors.
After the show, when we were all Whistle Binkies, she joined us for a bit and I turned to her and told her I loved her music.
"You remind me of Jackson Browne, the way you play piano," I said.
"Oh, my god! I love Jackson Browne!"
We then embarked on a brief discussion of how beautiful Jackson Browne is. And really, isn't he? As Mummy says, "Your favorite topic, Ashley!"
Favorite songs by Tift Merritt:
"Broken"
"Good-Hearted Man"
"Something to Me" (lyrics in sidebar)
"I Know Him, Too."
Anyway, when she came out during the Teddy Thompson portion of the show for their duet, it really was the nicest part of the night. Their voices blended so beautifully together and they both seemed to be having a fantastic time singing together. All I can say is that I'm not really sure how she's managed to fly under people's radar for quite so long. Or rather, my own radar. Either way, she's right in the middle of it, now.
Also, to the Shetlanders, I am so glad that Screenplay 2009 was such a rousing success for everyone and I miss you all very much. I'm stoked that you all had a great time and hope that I might be able to make it to a Screenplay festival someday....! Maybe 2010?
You see, Tift Merritt is like a little doll. She wears pretty, floaty dresses and has blond ringlets. She plays the piano a bit like my guy - Jackson, that is - and has a truly beautiful voice. Her lyrics are just as timelessly endearing as her style.
I think what I love most about her is how solid she seems. So many female singers and writers nowadays seem like a good gust of wind would blow them and their music right into the clouds. Her lyrics are light and her music is upbeat, but it's also substantial stuff -- there's meat on the bones of her songs, whereas a lot of those recording artists who are so popular now barely have bones. More like some paper-thin skin. None of the Regina Spector breathy girlchild nonsense. She doesn't conform to what seems like the norm nowadays, which is to say she looks like a doll, but not a porcelain doll. There's nothing fragile about her, but she's very feminine and that's refreshing. You mean an artist who is both a girl and not angst-ridden or come-hither? Shocking. Even her songs about being broken-hearted aren't really about being broken. Illustration 1.1:
Gather me in like a rainstorm,
Again and again and again,
Again and again and again,
Again and again again,
I think I will break but I mend.
Her piano is jangling and dance-happy; these are songs you can't play sitting down. Folk undertones, striking notes both bluesy and jazzy with her surprisingly soulful voice, and seeming every bit the girl-next-door that I think she is aiming to be -- albeit the girl-next-door with a real knack for metaphors.
After the show, when we were all Whistle Binkies, she joined us for a bit and I turned to her and told her I loved her music.
"You remind me of Jackson Browne, the way you play piano," I said.
"Oh, my god! I love Jackson Browne!"
We then embarked on a brief discussion of how beautiful Jackson Browne is. And really, isn't he? As Mummy says, "Your favorite topic, Ashley!"
Favorite songs by Tift Merritt:
"Broken"
"Good-Hearted Man"
"Something to Me" (lyrics in sidebar)
"I Know Him, Too."
Anyway, when she came out during the Teddy Thompson portion of the show for their duet, it really was the nicest part of the night. Their voices blended so beautifully together and they both seemed to be having a fantastic time singing together. All I can say is that I'm not really sure how she's managed to fly under people's radar for quite so long. Or rather, my own radar. Either way, she's right in the middle of it, now.
Also, to the Shetlanders, I am so glad that Screenplay 2009 was such a rousing success for everyone and I miss you all very much. I'm stoked that you all had a great time and hope that I might be able to make it to a Screenplay festival someday....! Maybe 2010?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Etsy Sunday!
More from the Etsy! Take a look-see.
| Etsy: Your place to buy & sell all things handmade LePetitEscargot.etsy.com |
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Jewel Box
Have you ever etsy-ed?
I have new items up and would love for you to take a look. My ultimate goal is to raise enough money by January for a plane ticket to Scotland... entirely through Etsy. So basically, I need to get some sales. Will you help me to return to Scotland next May?
I have new items up and would love for you to take a look. My ultimate goal is to raise enough money by January for a plane ticket to Scotland... entirely through Etsy. So basically, I need to get some sales. Will you help me to return to Scotland next May?
| Etsy: Your place to buy & sell all things handmade LePetitEscargot.etsy.com |
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Dear Shetland:
You. Me. We've been separated far too long. I call time on this forced separation and suggest a cure. (Also, from THE CURE, "I've been looking so long at these pictures of you, that I almost believe that they're real.")
THE CURE is, of course, face time. Even Skyping would be better than this awful distance we have between us.
I have a more viable solution, however. Blog every day until I see you again.
Failing that: Blog Every Day of September.
Consider this, if you will. I miss you. It only gets worse with time because there is no guarantee about when I shall return to the land of the almost-midnight sun. And I feel your absence as a physical hole in my chest. A la Steph Meyer. (EWWWWW.) This needs to end. I cannot be comparing myself to Bella. Ever.
So fix it. For real.
Lovecommaenter Ashley
THE CURE is, of course, face time. Even Skyping would be better than this awful distance we have between us.
I have a more viable solution, however. Blog every day until I see you again.
Failing that: Blog Every Day of September.
Consider this, if you will. I miss you. It only gets worse with time because there is no guarantee about when I shall return to the land of the almost-midnight sun. And I feel your absence as a physical hole in my chest. A la Steph Meyer. (EWWWWW.) This needs to end. I cannot be comparing myself to Bella. Ever.
So fix it. For real.
Lovecommaenter Ashley
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The story of Cain and Abel, Cal and Aaron, Charles and Adam
Dear God:
How come what Cain offered you wasn't enough? How come you were so much happier with Abel's sheep than you were the wheat offered to you by Cain? Why did you then punish Cain for the actions of his jealousy, which you so forcefully created?
Cain is the evil one and thus his sacrifice is not enough. Nothing he does will ever be good enough to make up for the fact that his father is the serpent that led Eve astray. He killed his brother because God drove him to it, drove him absolutely heathen with jealousy. Abel was no better than Cain, no more true or pure or honest or loving or devoted.
In fact, I think Abel was a little bit of a bitch.
You said to Cain: "If you do right, won't you be accepted? But if you do not do right, sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is for you, but you must master it."
Tell me what Cain did wrong in offering you what he pulled from the Earth. How was his gift to you wrong, how had he not done right by your exacting standards? If anything, Abel was a murderer who killed lambs to satisfy his Master's needs. Cain offered an alternative to murder, but was rejected. He was rejected for sins he had not yet committed and that is WRONG.
I don't blame Cain for his actions; I blame God for driving him to extremes. All Cain ever wanted from God was acceptance and seeing that he could not receive it, even when he had committed no sins, he acted out.
Abel is not a martyr. He did not die due to his own faith or fidelity to the Lord but as a result of God's indifference toward his far more emotional brother. Abel has always seemed cold to me, the detached but beloved brother, a prototype for the prodigal son, whose sins are forgiven because they happened and is favored over those who committed no sins because he has repented, and repentance is critical to earning God's love. (Perhaps, but is it not more impressive and godly to never need repent?)
I'm not a biblical scholar by any stretch of the imagination. But I know sibling rivalries like the back of my hand. I know the color and the taste of parental favoritism and I know what motivates the forsaken. I know better than God what is in the hearts of people rejected for the possibility of sins, and of how it drives them into the arms of sin as opposed to righteousness.
If you believe me a sinner before I have sinned, I have no motivation to prove you wrong. The worst has happened already and I have survived. Your mind will not change over time, when you notice I have not transgressed, but instead I will grow frustrated and increasingly defiant. If you tell me, before I have committed an evil act, that I have evil within me, you grant me permission to be evil and deny me the right to be otherwise.
I am Cain. I am the rejected child whose sacrifices will never be enough, who can never be anything but a sinner. I cannot master my lower nature because I was never given a chance and because you never had faith. Every man is capable of change except for Cain. Except for me. I am unalterably bad.
How come what Cain offered you wasn't enough? How come you were so much happier with Abel's sheep than you were the wheat offered to you by Cain? Why did you then punish Cain for the actions of his jealousy, which you so forcefully created?
Cain is the evil one and thus his sacrifice is not enough. Nothing he does will ever be good enough to make up for the fact that his father is the serpent that led Eve astray. He killed his brother because God drove him to it, drove him absolutely heathen with jealousy. Abel was no better than Cain, no more true or pure or honest or loving or devoted.
In fact, I think Abel was a little bit of a bitch.
You said to Cain: "If you do right, won't you be accepted? But if you do not do right, sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is for you, but you must master it."
Tell me what Cain did wrong in offering you what he pulled from the Earth. How was his gift to you wrong, how had he not done right by your exacting standards? If anything, Abel was a murderer who killed lambs to satisfy his Master's needs. Cain offered an alternative to murder, but was rejected. He was rejected for sins he had not yet committed and that is WRONG.
I don't blame Cain for his actions; I blame God for driving him to extremes. All Cain ever wanted from God was acceptance and seeing that he could not receive it, even when he had committed no sins, he acted out.
Abel is not a martyr. He did not die due to his own faith or fidelity to the Lord but as a result of God's indifference toward his far more emotional brother. Abel has always seemed cold to me, the detached but beloved brother, a prototype for the prodigal son, whose sins are forgiven because they happened and is favored over those who committed no sins because he has repented, and repentance is critical to earning God's love. (Perhaps, but is it not more impressive and godly to never need repent?)
I'm not a biblical scholar by any stretch of the imagination. But I know sibling rivalries like the back of my hand. I know the color and the taste of parental favoritism and I know what motivates the forsaken. I know better than God what is in the hearts of people rejected for the possibility of sins, and of how it drives them into the arms of sin as opposed to righteousness.
If you believe me a sinner before I have sinned, I have no motivation to prove you wrong. The worst has happened already and I have survived. Your mind will not change over time, when you notice I have not transgressed, but instead I will grow frustrated and increasingly defiant. If you tell me, before I have committed an evil act, that I have evil within me, you grant me permission to be evil and deny me the right to be otherwise.
I am Cain. I am the rejected child whose sacrifices will never be enough, who can never be anything but a sinner. I cannot master my lower nature because I was never given a chance and because you never had faith. Every man is capable of change except for Cain. Except for me. I am unalterably bad.
38And Cain said unto the Lord: Satan tempted me because of my brother's flocks. And I was wroth also; for his offering thou didst accept and not mine; my punishment is greater than I can bear.I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but I know I shall never be truly forgiven. So why bother even trying? I'll start over somewhere else, with someone new, and perhaps they will expect nothing of me. I wonder what I might be, if I ever truly had a blank slate on which to draw myself. (You say that you forgive me, that you would recognize if I had changed, but you have not and you do not. I am not the same girl that I was yesterday and I try so hard. Perhaps some day you'll notice, but it's already too late.)
39Behold thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the Lord, and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth. . .
Friday, August 7, 2009
The mysterious ticking noise
That sound? There... do you hear it?
Those of you who have known me since high school might remember when I was in eleventh grade and I had a schedule that looked something like this:
Friday morning - APUShistory exam
Friday night: junior prom
Saturday morning: three SAT II exams
Tuesday morning: AP chemistry exam
This is worse. This is insidious and overwhelming and I just need everyone to take, like, seventeen giant leaps backwards. No mother-may-I or "b-b-b-but!!!!" Just step backwards and let me, I don't know, breathe or something. Because I feel like I've been holding my breath since the end of May waiting for this being home thing to make me even remotely happy. But it hasn't yet.
It started at the airport when I came out of customs expecting to be welcomed by my parents. No phone, no money I could exchange, and a total of thirty American cents. No parents. I hadn't slept in about seventy-two hours and I just wanted to go home and sleep until August. They were half an hour late picking me up. But whatever. That seemed a minor glitch.
But it just kept going wrong everywhere I turned. Every time I got upset, I felt like I had someone telling me I had no right. When I let a tiny piece of what I was really feeling show (the day after Evan's party, which featured the guest of "honor" not showing up until after it had begun, thus avoiding any of the work for preparing it) and I let myself cry, only one person actually cared more about me being okay than either of the two
Do you remember when I was twelve and my grandfather had just died? At the airport, we were trying to change our tickets so we could fly home and you asked me to let it show a little more, so that it seemed more believable, so they would understand that this was important.
And I love you, but I can't be told how to grieve. I can't be told how to mourn or who I should be mourning with and under what circumstances.
Then I started working incredibly long days. Leaving the house at quarter-to-six and only getting home at 6:30, after a long day of buses, screaming children, uptight bosses, and Creepy Train Conductor Dude. Listen, I've been on "full-steam ahead" since June 22nd and I would like very much to be able to take five minutes when I am not thinking about anything else. I'm not sleeping well, I'm not eating well, and I don't feel healthy.
I don't know how to say this to your face.
My best friends are scattered and/or too busy for me. France, Virginia, Scotland, and college-friend obligations... I come home and I just want to check my email, eat, and go to bed. If I want eight hours of sleep, I need to be asleep by nine PM. So I don't have time for a two-and-a-half hour movie. Or even, really, a two-hour movie. I feel guilty watching half-hour episodes of TV because that time would be better spent planning for the next day and sleeping. I need time to actually just be alone and not think about this. But no one ever makes it easy. I don't want to deal with The Brat or his stupid comments that I can barely stand on a good day. (I haven't had a good day in a long time.)
On weekends, I typically have family obligations and that's cool, I suppose, but maybe on occasion I would enjoy not having to be "On." And I have to be on and social for those or I seem spoiled and bratty.
Two things were supposed to be good (and only two things). The sixth Harry Potter movie, which turned out to be WAY more stress and frustration than it was worth. And the Jackson Browne concert, which was used as a bargaining chip and took away so much of the sweetness. (How could you even suggest taking that away from me? It was quite literally the only thing I had to look forward to and the only reason I was not freaking out way more.)
I hate my job, I hate coming home to being nagged and nitpicked about stupid things, I hate sandwiches, I hate salad, I hate my stupid hips, my stupid knees, my stupid cat, I hate being expected to be the same person I was before I left for Scotland, I hate that I don't really have any time alone or even just with old friends, and I hate, especially, that he is allowed to treat me the way he treats me.
I'm not sure, at this point, how to get across how much I hate the way he treats me. I've tried responding in kind and I get the warning tone and anger. I hate when people vent to me about my family, I hate when people act like I have any control over what he does.
And that's not even getting into school and all of the attendant stress of being a senior in college. (Way worse than a senior in high school, because at least back then, they knew what choices they wanted me to make and now I'm expected to read their minds so I know which choice is the right one for me.... because I clearly am not qualified to make a single decision for myself. Not even about which chocolate I would prefer.)
Basically, I don't want to be here, surrounded by you.
Those of you who have known me since high school might remember when I was in eleventh grade and I had a schedule that looked something like this:
Friday morning - APUShistory exam
Friday night: junior prom
Saturday morning: three SAT II exams
Tuesday morning: AP chemistry exam
This is worse. This is insidious and overwhelming and I just need everyone to take, like, seventeen giant leaps backwards. No mother-may-I or "b-b-b-but!!!!" Just step backwards and let me, I don't know, breathe or something. Because I feel like I've been holding my breath since the end of May waiting for this being home thing to make me even remotely happy. But it hasn't yet.
It started at the airport when I came out of customs expecting to be welcomed by my parents. No phone, no money I could exchange, and a total of thirty American cents. No parents. I hadn't slept in about seventy-two hours and I just wanted to go home and sleep until August. They were half an hour late picking me up. But whatever. That seemed a minor glitch.
But it just kept going wrong everywhere I turned. Every time I got upset, I felt like I had someone telling me I had no right. When I let a tiny piece of what I was really feeling show (the day after Evan's party, which featured the guest of "honor" not showing up until after it had begun, thus avoiding any of the work for preparing it) and I let myself cry, only one person actually cared more about me being okay than either of the two
- making every thing look more orderly and clean
- taking a photo of this moment (I mean, honestly, why?)
Do you remember when I was twelve and my grandfather had just died? At the airport, we were trying to change our tickets so we could fly home and you asked me to let it show a little more, so that it seemed more believable, so they would understand that this was important.
And I love you, but I can't be told how to grieve. I can't be told how to mourn or who I should be mourning with and under what circumstances.
Then I started working incredibly long days. Leaving the house at quarter-to-six and only getting home at 6:30, after a long day of buses, screaming children, uptight bosses, and Creepy Train Conductor Dude. Listen, I've been on "full-steam ahead" since June 22nd and I would like very much to be able to take five minutes when I am not thinking about anything else. I'm not sleeping well, I'm not eating well, and I don't feel healthy.
I don't know how to say this to your face.
My best friends are scattered and/or too busy for me. France, Virginia, Scotland, and college-friend obligations... I come home and I just want to check my email, eat, and go to bed. If I want eight hours of sleep, I need to be asleep by nine PM. So I don't have time for a two-and-a-half hour movie. Or even, really, a two-hour movie. I feel guilty watching half-hour episodes of TV because that time would be better spent planning for the next day and sleeping. I need time to actually just be alone and not think about this. But no one ever makes it easy. I don't want to deal with The Brat or his stupid comments that I can barely stand on a good day. (I haven't had a good day in a long time.)
On weekends, I typically have family obligations and that's cool, I suppose, but maybe on occasion I would enjoy not having to be "On." And I have to be on and social for those or I seem spoiled and bratty.
Two things were supposed to be good (and only two things). The sixth Harry Potter movie, which turned out to be WAY more stress and frustration than it was worth. And the Jackson Browne concert, which was used as a bargaining chip and took away so much of the sweetness. (How could you even suggest taking that away from me? It was quite literally the only thing I had to look forward to and the only reason I was not freaking out way more.)
I hate my job, I hate coming home to being nagged and nitpicked about stupid things, I hate sandwiches, I hate salad, I hate my stupid hips, my stupid knees, my stupid cat, I hate being expected to be the same person I was before I left for Scotland, I hate that I don't really have any time alone or even just with old friends, and I hate, especially, that he is allowed to treat me the way he treats me.
I'm not sure, at this point, how to get across how much I hate the way he treats me. I've tried responding in kind and I get the warning tone and anger. I hate when people vent to me about my family, I hate when people act like I have any control over what he does.
And that's not even getting into school and all of the attendant stress of being a senior in college. (Way worse than a senior in high school, because at least back then, they knew what choices they wanted me to make and now I'm expected to read their minds so I know which choice is the right one for me.... because I clearly am not qualified to make a single decision for myself. Not even about which chocolate I would prefer.)
Basically, I don't want to be here, surrounded by you.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
All our old clothes are back in style...
Oh, hello! It's been awhile. I've been decompressing and destressing and simplifying. I've been beading and working and eating. Since we last spoke there has been work, trips to the Vineyard, escapes to Waggs Mountain, the return of True Blood, Entourage, and Secret Life, trips to bead shops, though not THE bead shop, and some jewelry construction. Jackson Browne came to town, did some dancing, and left. The Sox went from six games up to a half game out. Justin Masterson was traded for Victor Martinez and a little piece of my soul went with him. Old friends became new friends and new friends became old friends. I bought new headphones with frogs perched on them, I have done very little swimming this summer, and a surprising amount of mask-wearing. Michael Jackson died, his daughter cried, and America celebrated another birthday. I've missed Scotland, loved Boston, and gone to the doctor's office.
Basically, it's been business as usual.
Which was, really, the reason for the hiatus. When I started this blog, it was so people at home could keep up with my Scottish adventures. (Some Scottish adventures proved TOO adventuresome and were removed from the Bloglands.) Now that I'm home, I've been finding it difficult to motivate myself to write, and difficult to find anything worth writing. Does anyone really care that I had a Coolata this morning instead of a Dunkacino? Really?
So what I'm trying to say is that I'm looking for a new format for this blog. I've changed the name, I've changed the layout. I'm not in Scotland anymore and this blog needs a new purpose.
Maybe updates on my jewelry production?
Arts and entertainment?
Or would you rather follow my Div III as it unfolds? Not to mention my quest for further education and fulfillment?
I don't know, which is why you need to tell me.
Basically, it's been business as usual.
Which was, really, the reason for the hiatus. When I started this blog, it was so people at home could keep up with my Scottish adventures. (Some Scottish adventures proved TOO adventuresome and were removed from the Bloglands.) Now that I'm home, I've been finding it difficult to motivate myself to write, and difficult to find anything worth writing. Does anyone really care that I had a Coolata this morning instead of a Dunkacino? Really?
So what I'm trying to say is that I'm looking for a new format for this blog. I've changed the name, I've changed the layout. I'm not in Scotland anymore and this blog needs a new purpose.
Maybe updates on my jewelry production?
Arts and entertainment?
Or would you rather follow my Div III as it unfolds? Not to mention my quest for further education and fulfillment?
I don't know, which is why you need to tell me.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Say hello; wave goodbye.
Some photos from my triumphant return stateside. (It was a bittersweet affair.)
[Husking corn is an essential summer activity.]
[She wanted to keep the hat so much that we couldn't even distract her with Curious George sunglasses!]
[K-Jackson Browne]
[High tide at Brant Rock]
[For Cara.]
[Ugliest cake of all time.]
[But so delicious]
[WILLLLL]
[Because he has a metal detector... come on.]
[Not cold at all...]
[Brian]
[We didn't waste the blueberries]
[Happiness.]
[Lovecommaenter The Beach]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[Husking corn is an essential summer activity.]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[She wanted to keep the hat so much that we couldn't even distract her with Curious George sunglasses!]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[K-Jackson Browne]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[High tide at Brant Rock]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[For Cara.]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[Ugliest cake of all time.]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[But so delicious]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[WILLLLL]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[Because he has a metal detector... come on.]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[Not cold at all...]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[Brian]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[We didn't waste the blueberries]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[Happiness.]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
[Lovecommaenter The Beach]
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Time is a runaway
You don't need to know who they are. Just know that they're important.
(Ok, so he's not IMPORTANT. He's creepy. But still, I consider that a funny story that I won't ever tell.)
Oh, Colin Barlow, what are we going to do with you?
(This is actually one of the funniest stories of the night, I think.)
Oh, please. You all know what you're waiting for. I didn't want to post it because it made the being gone so much more real. Fiiiine. Here's the Irish Jeff Buckley fan:
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
(Ok, so he's not IMPORTANT. He's creepy. But still, I consider that a funny story that I won't ever tell.)
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
Oh, Colin Barlow, what are we going to do with you?
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
(This is actually one of the funniest stories of the night, I think.)
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
Oh, please. You all know what you're waiting for. I didn't want to post it because it made the being gone so much more real. Fiiiine. Here's the Irish Jeff Buckley fan:
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| From He's Just Not That Into You |
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