It's funny to read my words and remember who I used to be and realize that I'm not those people anymore. I wonder if snakes or spiders see their shed skins and criticize their shapeshifting ways as much as I tend to do.
About a month ago, I sat in the public library and read stuff that I'd written in high school. Most of it was precious, trite crap. I had attempted to be worldly, cultured, nuanced. Instead, my head was so far up my own ass that I confused my colon for my heart.
Twenty minutes ago, I reread my latest post on here and noticed that it was disjointed and unwieldy. I could go ahead and revise it, but this is a journal and life does not get edited. This meandering of my writing is a trend that I've noticed. I think my goal was to put as much information as possible in each of my pieces, to make each work a grand masterpiece with every ounce of newly accumulated revelation. I wanted my work to encapsulate a sprawling worldview. I envisioned pieces that blew peoples' minds away just with their spindly synopses.
But the truth is, a lot of what I've been working on can be shortened and condensed. I've misunderstood my own analogy of my being a diamond with many facets. I've been trying to show people all the facets at once; I should be concentrating on showing off the facets that I need to show off. Each of them has its own distinct personality, with layers and dimensions all their own to understand. I must work on building up my ability of articulating each of these facets and rendering a clear and concise verbal picture of each of them, before I can ever hope to write a piece about more than one of them.
This is all so telling of my personality. In high school, I fancied myself a misunderstood outcast masquerading as the bell of the ball. Sure, I had my share of admirers and wacky high-jinx, but I made myself believe that the real me was some mysterious and otherworldly being that no one could possibly comprehend. Hence why my writing from that time was so cliched and dull.
When I was writing This Girl's Life for The Kingsman, there were moments when I really felt like I was onto something, and that confidence showed in my writing. Unfortunately, the fact that I had sometimes misplaced this confidence also showed up; a short time ago, I reread an article that I wrote four years ago and laughed at the holes in my articulation (and personal beliefs).
And now...? Well, I think I'll let you decide who I am. If I'm a skilled enough writer, my narrator should shine through and I shouldn't have to define her. You should know her without ever having to meet her in person. In fact, you should be privy to an inner evolution that most people would glance over - and this would make you her closest confidantes.
No wonder English lit professors always ask what the writer was thinking, what their motivations are, etc. The grammar in a skilled piece of writing is as telling of a person's psychology as its subject matter. That's also why good writers often anguish over a single semi-colon or the point of view of the story. It's these little things that give way to a subconscious understanding of who you are as a person. Every mark is a statement of a writer's composition.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The "uncomfortable" is what makes you learn.
I hate it when people ask me if I'm done with school. I know what they're really asking is if I've graduated from undergrad, and that question bugs me out - but not as much as the first. For the most part, it's just another form of judgment; it's like asking how much money I make or how old I was when I lost my virginity. I mean, what exactly do you gain by knowing this about me, ya know? This particular judgment is about how far along I should be by this point in my life, as if life were a road demarcated by the holy trinity of accepted expectations: college graduation, marriage, kids.
What kind of soul-illuminating evidence do you really expect to find by attempting to pigeon-hole me? Am I just another puzzle you wanna put together? Do you really think I'm so simple that I can be defined by something so inane?
The other part that bugs me out about asking me "Are you done with school?" is my answer. No, asswipe, I'm not done with it, and I'll never be done with it. I mean that quite literally. You might as well have feces and herpes all over you because you are making me all sorts of ucomfortable by asking me that question. I haven't finished undergrad yet, and I'm never going to finish "my schooling." I'm going to be in school for as long as I possibly can.
I want to get several undergrad degrees, master's degrees, maybe a PhD or two and a law degree, before I'm dead and buried. I'm not after the pomp and hype surrounding each decorated piece of paper: I probably won't even mention any of these accomplishments in daily conversation. I enjoy the rigid and familiar structure of classroom stereotyes and situations, and I realize that it's within this forum that I come into contact with all of the academic parts of the world (and myself) that I otherwise would shy away from. I have a real and distinct need to learn as much as I can, and the academic world is the only place where I can live off of that facet of myself. There are various opportunities - monetary gains, job connections, etc. - to be gained by indulging my desire to absorb information, so why the hell shouldn't I?
The process by which I become an expert on something - philosophy, psychology, politics, Romantic poets, et al. - begins when I sit before a supposed expert in the field. I trust the knowledge spouted out in front of me, and I can depend on its source because s/he is getting paid to espouse information. I deal with the clashing of differing views, change my own perspective, alter my ideas, and become better informed. It's uncomfortable in its rudimentary ideals, and that's what makes me love it so much.
Academics is more cut-and-dry and black-and-white than practically anything else I can think of; there is no secret magic formula to exceling at it. That static, fixed constant of give-and-take, digest-and-articulate, intelligence-transforming-everlasting, is what I'm looking for. I need it to feel grounded.
In the past week, I've assisted one of my students in coming out to her parents; I've dealt with gang relations; I've reconnected with my best guy friend; I've found a portal into pre-Giuliani NY; I've written more than I have in the past six months; I've celebated the birthday of an amazing woman; I've read pieces that have made me cry, laugh, cheer, and exalt in their greatness; I've gotten several steps closer to understanding how/why I must interact with my parents; I've vigorously exercised my body; I've mourned the loss of relationships past; I've had a picnic in Central Park; I've confused and enlightened many people; I've driven to NJ with people I used to feel ambivalent towards, and drove back really loving them; I've learned where I can get an exclusive shampoo and where I can find an elusive dance studio; I've found my niche within my extended family; I've earned money by being myself and doing things I love to do; I've eaten so much delicious food in one day that I felt like I'd explode; I've loved completely, wholly, unselfishly, unceasingly; I've learned to stop criticizing people and their everyday actions; I've learned to continue holding everything in high regards while simultaneously understanding that they don't really matter; I've let go of guilt, shame and self-pity; I've consoled a youth by telling her in no uncertain terms that I've been where she is; I've seen the sun rise and set over water; I've listened to a stranger's melancholic song in the subway at 1 a.m.; I've regained whatever self-confidence had been faltering; I've internalized poetry; I've dug trenches in which to proudly display my next flood of tears; I've touched on cornerstones of truth; I've acknowledged the bedrock of personal experiences and definite truths that I've accumulated... I've done all this and so much more. Is it any wonder why I need something more conventional to keep me stable?
Each of my days is truly a new adventure. And it's uncomfortable, this fluctuating of scenarios and opinions. It's so easy to cling on to a tried belief that may not necessarily be true, or to stick to places or people who only bloster what you aleady know. But this right here. Being thrown directly from one mindset to another. Falling prey to whatever might come my way, and feeling confident that I can tackle it. All this. It's only possible if I have a steady river of study fortifying my soul - and I get it at school.
So don't ask me if I'm done yet with an undergrad or a master's or a PhD degree. Don't assume that you can talk down to me because I don't drop my academic prowess into every other conversation. Don't gauge my life by some preconceived notion of how things should be or how they are - because all of that is only relevant within the realm of You and What You Do. There is a specific and altogether different method to my madness. Make some time, sit down, and talk to me, and you'll find out for yourself. Just be prepared to get uncomfortable.
What kind of soul-illuminating evidence do you really expect to find by attempting to pigeon-hole me? Am I just another puzzle you wanna put together? Do you really think I'm so simple that I can be defined by something so inane?
The other part that bugs me out about asking me "Are you done with school?" is my answer. No, asswipe, I'm not done with it, and I'll never be done with it. I mean that quite literally. You might as well have feces and herpes all over you because you are making me all sorts of ucomfortable by asking me that question. I haven't finished undergrad yet, and I'm never going to finish "my schooling." I'm going to be in school for as long as I possibly can.
I want to get several undergrad degrees, master's degrees, maybe a PhD or two and a law degree, before I'm dead and buried. I'm not after the pomp and hype surrounding each decorated piece of paper: I probably won't even mention any of these accomplishments in daily conversation. I enjoy the rigid and familiar structure of classroom stereotyes and situations, and I realize that it's within this forum that I come into contact with all of the academic parts of the world (and myself) that I otherwise would shy away from. I have a real and distinct need to learn as much as I can, and the academic world is the only place where I can live off of that facet of myself. There are various opportunities - monetary gains, job connections, etc. - to be gained by indulging my desire to absorb information, so why the hell shouldn't I?
The process by which I become an expert on something - philosophy, psychology, politics, Romantic poets, et al. - begins when I sit before a supposed expert in the field. I trust the knowledge spouted out in front of me, and I can depend on its source because s/he is getting paid to espouse information. I deal with the clashing of differing views, change my own perspective, alter my ideas, and become better informed. It's uncomfortable in its rudimentary ideals, and that's what makes me love it so much.
Academics is more cut-and-dry and black-and-white than practically anything else I can think of; there is no secret magic formula to exceling at it. That static, fixed constant of give-and-take, digest-and-articulate, intelligence-transforming-everlasting, is what I'm looking for. I need it to feel grounded.
In the past week, I've assisted one of my students in coming out to her parents; I've dealt with gang relations; I've reconnected with my best guy friend; I've found a portal into pre-Giuliani NY; I've written more than I have in the past six months; I've celebated the birthday of an amazing woman; I've read pieces that have made me cry, laugh, cheer, and exalt in their greatness; I've gotten several steps closer to understanding how/why I must interact with my parents; I've vigorously exercised my body; I've mourned the loss of relationships past; I've had a picnic in Central Park; I've confused and enlightened many people; I've driven to NJ with people I used to feel ambivalent towards, and drove back really loving them; I've learned where I can get an exclusive shampoo and where I can find an elusive dance studio; I've found my niche within my extended family; I've earned money by being myself and doing things I love to do; I've eaten so much delicious food in one day that I felt like I'd explode; I've loved completely, wholly, unselfishly, unceasingly; I've learned to stop criticizing people and their everyday actions; I've learned to continue holding everything in high regards while simultaneously understanding that they don't really matter; I've let go of guilt, shame and self-pity; I've consoled a youth by telling her in no uncertain terms that I've been where she is; I've seen the sun rise and set over water; I've listened to a stranger's melancholic song in the subway at 1 a.m.; I've regained whatever self-confidence had been faltering; I've internalized poetry; I've dug trenches in which to proudly display my next flood of tears; I've touched on cornerstones of truth; I've acknowledged the bedrock of personal experiences and definite truths that I've accumulated... I've done all this and so much more. Is it any wonder why I need something more conventional to keep me stable?
Each of my days is truly a new adventure. And it's uncomfortable, this fluctuating of scenarios and opinions. It's so easy to cling on to a tried belief that may not necessarily be true, or to stick to places or people who only bloster what you aleady know. But this right here. Being thrown directly from one mindset to another. Falling prey to whatever might come my way, and feeling confident that I can tackle it. All this. It's only possible if I have a steady river of study fortifying my soul - and I get it at school.
So don't ask me if I'm done yet with an undergrad or a master's or a PhD degree. Don't assume that you can talk down to me because I don't drop my academic prowess into every other conversation. Don't gauge my life by some preconceived notion of how things should be or how they are - because all of that is only relevant within the realm of You and What You Do. There is a specific and altogether different method to my madness. Make some time, sit down, and talk to me, and you'll find out for yourself. Just be prepared to get uncomfortable.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Le Thargy
I'm so unbelievably tired. I'm not sure what it is exactly. My body is almost as temperamental as my mind. Monotonous laziness can get me just as tired as a fully-packed, adrenaline-filled schedule. And.... Eh. Who am I kidding? I just need a reason to gripe.
The truth of the matter is, I've reached an even plateau of comfort, and though I don't want the streak to end, I'm also very aware that it will end eventually. In the past, my fear of said ending would lead me to a downward spiral of shameless debauchery. My theory was "If it's gonna end, I should at least have power over when it ends."
But times, they are a-changin', and life - it seems to be getting easier. Sure, the bills are piled sky-high, there's still that lifetime student stuff to contend with, and there will always be moments when I feel unsure/strange/insignificant. But truly, seriously, definitely: Life is what it is, and what it is is Good. To say more seems like overkill.
I biked for twenty minutes today, then used the elliptical for another 15 before lifting weights for half an hour and working on my writing for two hours. This was while cooking breakfast and lunch and hydrating myself like a poached salmon. It's been weeks since I really worked out, and I surprised myself with my endurance; I hardly broke a sweat during my exercise session, and was able to keep up a full conversation without getting winded. Skimping out on meat and poultry seems to be working some kinda magic on me!
In other Maria-news, I'm reading several books, one of which, Cloudsplitter, was given to me by Jazz Star Crony. It's an amazing book that has me thinking about its passages hours after I put it down, and I constantly find myself rereading entire chapters to take note of how everything spirals out and then ties back in; needless to say, I don't think I'll finish it any time soon.
Baby brother is applying to jobs, and will hopefully get one soon. Dad's working two jobs. Mom's looking for a second job. I'm working several part-time gigs. And homelife is awesome. Maybe it's my imagination, but it feels like all of us have our heads on straight.
So I'm thinking about Latina Princess, the minor setbacks at my gigs, the tiny dramas of day-to-day existence - getting into an argument with a woman on the street or explaining again to Would-Be Romantic why we're not going to work out or flirting with a co-worker who swears he and his girlfriend just broke up or meeting a handsome stranger and going home with him - and I'm realizing why I don't write about any of that here.
Those things are definitely more fascinating than this even-handed existence that I've carved out for myself, but they're too precious to put up on some public venue - especially a public venue that defines itself as non-fiction. These juicy details of life, the sifting through of hard-won resolve, the stories that I will only tell when someone is in a similar situation: they need to be hidden under the guise of fiction. And knowing that, seeing this entire paragraph in print, makes me realize just how much I've changed. Not too long ago, I needed everyone to see my insides. I needed acknowledgement and validation. I needed understanding and comradery. I needed and begged for all of these petty verifications from strangers of who I am and what I'm about.
But now I realize there's so much more of me to give, and by only showing off those loud facets of my personality, I limited the possible interactions I could've had with others. It's okay to talk about sex and gangs and violence and drugs and bare those mistakes and cuts and scars. It's okay to mention my perfect pussy lips or the light bag my connect tried to sell me as a pound. But how about the other parts of me? The artist? The daughter? The revolutionary? The thinker? The teacher? The pioneer? If I don't give these facets of my personality time to shine, can I blame people for not realizing they exist?
The truth of the matter is, I've reached an even plateau of comfort, and though I don't want the streak to end, I'm also very aware that it will end eventually. In the past, my fear of said ending would lead me to a downward spiral of shameless debauchery. My theory was "If it's gonna end, I should at least have power over when it ends."
But times, they are a-changin', and life - it seems to be getting easier. Sure, the bills are piled sky-high, there's still that lifetime student stuff to contend with, and there will always be moments when I feel unsure/strange/insignificant. But truly, seriously, definitely: Life is what it is, and what it is is Good. To say more seems like overkill.
I biked for twenty minutes today, then used the elliptical for another 15 before lifting weights for half an hour and working on my writing for two hours. This was while cooking breakfast and lunch and hydrating myself like a poached salmon. It's been weeks since I really worked out, and I surprised myself with my endurance; I hardly broke a sweat during my exercise session, and was able to keep up a full conversation without getting winded. Skimping out on meat and poultry seems to be working some kinda magic on me!
In other Maria-news, I'm reading several books, one of which, Cloudsplitter, was given to me by Jazz Star Crony. It's an amazing book that has me thinking about its passages hours after I put it down, and I constantly find myself rereading entire chapters to take note of how everything spirals out and then ties back in; needless to say, I don't think I'll finish it any time soon.
Baby brother is applying to jobs, and will hopefully get one soon. Dad's working two jobs. Mom's looking for a second job. I'm working several part-time gigs. And homelife is awesome. Maybe it's my imagination, but it feels like all of us have our heads on straight.
So I'm thinking about Latina Princess, the minor setbacks at my gigs, the tiny dramas of day-to-day existence - getting into an argument with a woman on the street or explaining again to Would-Be Romantic why we're not going to work out or flirting with a co-worker who swears he and his girlfriend just broke up or meeting a handsome stranger and going home with him - and I'm realizing why I don't write about any of that here.
Those things are definitely more fascinating than this even-handed existence that I've carved out for myself, but they're too precious to put up on some public venue - especially a public venue that defines itself as non-fiction. These juicy details of life, the sifting through of hard-won resolve, the stories that I will only tell when someone is in a similar situation: they need to be hidden under the guise of fiction. And knowing that, seeing this entire paragraph in print, makes me realize just how much I've changed. Not too long ago, I needed everyone to see my insides. I needed acknowledgement and validation. I needed understanding and comradery. I needed and begged for all of these petty verifications from strangers of who I am and what I'm about.
But now I realize there's so much more of me to give, and by only showing off those loud facets of my personality, I limited the possible interactions I could've had with others. It's okay to talk about sex and gangs and violence and drugs and bare those mistakes and cuts and scars. It's okay to mention my perfect pussy lips or the light bag my connect tried to sell me as a pound. But how about the other parts of me? The artist? The daughter? The revolutionary? The thinker? The teacher? The pioneer? If I don't give these facets of my personality time to shine, can I blame people for not realizing they exist?
A Place for Everything
I've always felt like there's something missing or misplaced about me. Growing up, I'd see my friends' parents and notice that they'd figured out something that was wholly lost on my own parents: how to invest money, how to decorate their house fashionably, how to stay within their budgets, how to speak English eloquently, et al. It seemed to me that my friends were at an advantage. They had been brought up in a household where something essential to survival had been known and understood; they'd learn those skills and apply them to life whereas I'd have to teach myself these life lessons and inevitably lose my way now and again.
I'd watch friends who come from advantaged households; they seemed to gain their footing in life sooner. They'd know what they wanted, and they'd narrow down their choices of life experience. Almost innately, it seemed, they knew their chosen fields and how to excel at them. People like me - whose own parents knew little about "how to make things work here," wherever "here" was or what "work" meant - needed time to find their footing.
This made for completely different life experiences and perspectives. Whereas my "made" counterparts were diligently working towards their goals and could spot out the diversions to their futures, I was left wondering which life path would suit me best. My parents had come to the States so that I could have more opportunities, and I needed time and experience to figure out which opportunities I wanted to claim. There was no plan. No blueprints. No way to know off the bat what was right or wrong or successful or failing. In this world of unknowns, every day's happiness was a subjective inventing of imagination and limited resources.
Deeply aware of what I was lacking, I spent a lot of my adolescence making up for my shortcomings. I was a model student before I realized that being a model student is supposed to be difficult. I was a dreamer before I realized that rebellion and cool are tied so tightly to lofty aspirations. I was a wanderer - just because.
Looking back, there are so many holes to my life story, so many potholes and complete delusions that were fed to me by necessity or improvization. Half-truths and full-out-lies that I believed in order to keep on going, to not stop, to not look back or falter or feel bad about myself and my limited resources.
But as is often the case (I think), my problems and mistakes worked themselves out like the montage of shopping sprees and study sessions after the climax of a feel-good movie.
Now, here I am, 23 years old, with a million actions, indescretions and adventures under my belt, and a million more to go. With every day that passes, my personality and my goals are cemented by a gained knowledge about who I am, what I am, and what I need to do in order to look myself in the mirror.
Imagine my surprise when, last night, I talked to Indecisive Artist about my life and realized that the dust has settled and I've joined my friends - the ones who were brought up with a true sense of what's what and who's who.
No longer curious about those trivialities that are supposed to be givens - those bits of information that upon introspection seem so definite and obvious that we must know them off the bat - my life has begun to take on a universally understood kind of good. There is artistry in my motives, in the way my mind works, in the mistakes and shortcomings that I find myself a victim of.
I look at my new circumstances with new eyes and notice amazing facts: I'm getting paid for being the best version of myself; I wouldn't change my living arrangement at this moment for anything; my friends and my lovers are quantified and qualified. My life is full. There is little wiggle room for unnecessary or doubtful bits. Now, there's only room to go up and out, like a grand and magical balloon of mystery and awesomeness.
I'd watch friends who come from advantaged households; they seemed to gain their footing in life sooner. They'd know what they wanted, and they'd narrow down their choices of life experience. Almost innately, it seemed, they knew their chosen fields and how to excel at them. People like me - whose own parents knew little about "how to make things work here," wherever "here" was or what "work" meant - needed time to find their footing.
This made for completely different life experiences and perspectives. Whereas my "made" counterparts were diligently working towards their goals and could spot out the diversions to their futures, I was left wondering which life path would suit me best. My parents had come to the States so that I could have more opportunities, and I needed time and experience to figure out which opportunities I wanted to claim. There was no plan. No blueprints. No way to know off the bat what was right or wrong or successful or failing. In this world of unknowns, every day's happiness was a subjective inventing of imagination and limited resources.
Deeply aware of what I was lacking, I spent a lot of my adolescence making up for my shortcomings. I was a model student before I realized that being a model student is supposed to be difficult. I was a dreamer before I realized that rebellion and cool are tied so tightly to lofty aspirations. I was a wanderer - just because.
Looking back, there are so many holes to my life story, so many potholes and complete delusions that were fed to me by necessity or improvization. Half-truths and full-out-lies that I believed in order to keep on going, to not stop, to not look back or falter or feel bad about myself and my limited resources.
But as is often the case (I think), my problems and mistakes worked themselves out like the montage of shopping sprees and study sessions after the climax of a feel-good movie.
Now, here I am, 23 years old, with a million actions, indescretions and adventures under my belt, and a million more to go. With every day that passes, my personality and my goals are cemented by a gained knowledge about who I am, what I am, and what I need to do in order to look myself in the mirror.
Imagine my surprise when, last night, I talked to Indecisive Artist about my life and realized that the dust has settled and I've joined my friends - the ones who were brought up with a true sense of what's what and who's who.
No longer curious about those trivialities that are supposed to be givens - those bits of information that upon introspection seem so definite and obvious that we must know them off the bat - my life has begun to take on a universally understood kind of good. There is artistry in my motives, in the way my mind works, in the mistakes and shortcomings that I find myself a victim of.
I look at my new circumstances with new eyes and notice amazing facts: I'm getting paid for being the best version of myself; I wouldn't change my living arrangement at this moment for anything; my friends and my lovers are quantified and qualified. My life is full. There is little wiggle room for unnecessary or doubtful bits. Now, there's only room to go up and out, like a grand and magical balloon of mystery and awesomeness.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Illuminate My Everything
There's a book I've read. I don't know the name of it, but it gave advice on writing and mentioned that a good way to start the day is to write every morning. There needn't be any reason or plot to your writing. Just expel your brain. Or, as I like to call it, brain vomit.
I've written a bunch of entries on here that haven't seen the light of day. Mostly, they aren't finished because I lose track of time and I don't like "publishing" things that are half-assed. But the whole enchilada goes something like this: I have lots of thoughts on the brain, frying away like fertilized eggs. It's really disgusting.
I haven't had my period in more than a month now. Again. And the gyno says that the last pap was "inconclusive," whatever the hell that means. I went to see her last Friday and God almighty, was I happy to have medical insurance and to have found a sane person to check out my lady parts! I almost came in her hands, the experience was so gratifying!
Dr. Gyno made me pee on a stick since I mentioned that I wasn't sure exactly when my last period was. It came back negative, and we talked about whether or not I should have a blood test, and I said that my mental state was way too delicate to handle pregnancy, and that I'd rather pee on another stick in a week or so, after I'd gotten my bearings and felt in control of things again.
Speaking of woman parts, I went to the Brooklyn College production of the Vagina Monologues last night. I meant to see the show, but when I heard that they were short on door staff, I offered my services.
Of course, this was after I'd already shelled out ten bucks for my ticket - but whatever. The girl who replaced me after my time at the Women's Center was up offered to give me a refund, but the lack of audience attendance made me decide to let them have my money.
Sitting out there in the cold, hard lobby, chocolate vaginas and breasts displayed, tantalizingly, in front of me, I talked to Sweet Sophomore and half-listened to most of the show. The lines are eerily engrained on my memory from all the times my mind's run over them, and as I talked to Sweet Sophomore and remembered the women I've assisted in memorizing those lines, a deep pang of nostaligic wonder swept over my body. It was so telling: being a woman, listening to women recite lines that are near and dear to me, remembering how other women made these stories their own, remembering the stories of these women who memorized other women's stories in order to raise money for women in need of the services of Park Slope Safe Homes.
It's an amazing and beautiful thing to be a part of. I hope more people get to see the production this year. I feel like PSSH depends on our annual donation.
I've written a bunch of entries on here that haven't seen the light of day. Mostly, they aren't finished because I lose track of time and I don't like "publishing" things that are half-assed. But the whole enchilada goes something like this: I have lots of thoughts on the brain, frying away like fertilized eggs. It's really disgusting.
I haven't had my period in more than a month now. Again. And the gyno says that the last pap was "inconclusive," whatever the hell that means. I went to see her last Friday and God almighty, was I happy to have medical insurance and to have found a sane person to check out my lady parts! I almost came in her hands, the experience was so gratifying!
Dr. Gyno made me pee on a stick since I mentioned that I wasn't sure exactly when my last period was. It came back negative, and we talked about whether or not I should have a blood test, and I said that my mental state was way too delicate to handle pregnancy, and that I'd rather pee on another stick in a week or so, after I'd gotten my bearings and felt in control of things again.
Speaking of woman parts, I went to the Brooklyn College production of the Vagina Monologues last night. I meant to see the show, but when I heard that they were short on door staff, I offered my services.
Of course, this was after I'd already shelled out ten bucks for my ticket - but whatever. The girl who replaced me after my time at the Women's Center was up offered to give me a refund, but the lack of audience attendance made me decide to let them have my money.
Sitting out there in the cold, hard lobby, chocolate vaginas and breasts displayed, tantalizingly, in front of me, I talked to Sweet Sophomore and half-listened to most of the show. The lines are eerily engrained on my memory from all the times my mind's run over them, and as I talked to Sweet Sophomore and remembered the women I've assisted in memorizing those lines, a deep pang of nostaligic wonder swept over my body. It was so telling: being a woman, listening to women recite lines that are near and dear to me, remembering how other women made these stories their own, remembering the stories of these women who memorized other women's stories in order to raise money for women in need of the services of Park Slope Safe Homes.
It's an amazing and beautiful thing to be a part of. I hope more people get to see the production this year. I feel like PSSH depends on our annual donation.
Past Tense
You caught me
in a transitional period.
Awkward and unsure,
unable to meet goals,
Afraid of proving
myself a fraud,
Powerless to say anything
definitively.
I was a shape shifter
Conforming
to the washed-up,
dried-out belief
of who I should be.
I was without
a true identity.
And I'm sorry
for the mind-numbing
Timidity
that I hoped could pass
for humility.
The charade is up.
No more acting.
No more passivity.
Hi, nice to meet you.
I'm me.
in a transitional period.
Awkward and unsure,
unable to meet goals,
Afraid of proving
myself a fraud,
Powerless to say anything
definitively.
I was a shape shifter
Conforming
to the washed-up,
dried-out belief
of who I should be.
I was without
a true identity.
And I'm sorry
for the mind-numbing
Timidity
that I hoped could pass
for humility.
The charade is up.
No more acting.
No more passivity.
Hi, nice to meet you.
I'm me.
Shopaholics Not-So-Anonymous
The Gap: panties
Forever 21: $96 for 4 pairs of jeans, 3 dresses and a jacket (plus free delivery!)
Urban Outfitters: watch and sandals
I'm thinking about buying bras from Frederick's. My 36DDs are suddenly not as voluptuous as they once were; for good measure, I think I'll try out 38Ds.
And shoes! It pissed me off that Bakers had an AH-MAZING sale on shoes, and I missed out on it.
Anyway: working on a couple of blouses and three dresses. Can't wait till the warmer weather is in full effect!
Forever 21: $96 for 4 pairs of jeans, 3 dresses and a jacket (plus free delivery!)
Urban Outfitters: watch and sandals
I'm thinking about buying bras from Frederick's. My 36DDs are suddenly not as voluptuous as they once were; for good measure, I think I'll try out 38Ds.
And shoes! It pissed me off that Bakers had an AH-MAZING sale on shoes, and I missed out on it.
Anyway: working on a couple of blouses and three dresses. Can't wait till the warmer weather is in full effect!
Changes
There's an obvious and different change to the way I express myself on the (web) page. I'm typing away and it's hard to ignore. Where did it come from and why does it exist?
When I started Solipsism, it was on a whim. The only other publicly-aired day-to-day personal diatribe I'd ever had was my column in the college newspaper, and that forum necessitated a certain kind of artsy panache. It wouldn't do for me to simply vent; I had to be clever, witty, illuminating. My blogging still smelled like my column since I carried my old ways into the new.
But now, with that part of my life over - the dismissal of daily pretention in effect - I'm free to be me. Unadulterated. Pure. Uncut. 100% straight from the earth. Me.
There is no need for me to pretty up my words or try to sound logical. The purposes of this writing venue are purely personal, so it doesn't really matter if anyone else understands the way my writing voice wobbles and warbles.
Now, instead of "See Maria write beautifully," it's "See Maria change." This is an attempt to strip away the step-by-step quality of explaining myself in Soplisism. I'm trying to get back my literary form. I want to show instead of tell. I want to be the writer as well as the written word.
So if I'm abrupt, if I'm confusing, if I ply you with too many nicknames for my friends, etc., then I'm truly sorry. I don't mean to irritate anyone. I just want to be me.
When I started Solipsism, it was on a whim. The only other publicly-aired day-to-day personal diatribe I'd ever had was my column in the college newspaper, and that forum necessitated a certain kind of artsy panache. It wouldn't do for me to simply vent; I had to be clever, witty, illuminating. My blogging still smelled like my column since I carried my old ways into the new.
But now, with that part of my life over - the dismissal of daily pretention in effect - I'm free to be me. Unadulterated. Pure. Uncut. 100% straight from the earth. Me.
There is no need for me to pretty up my words or try to sound logical. The purposes of this writing venue are purely personal, so it doesn't really matter if anyone else understands the way my writing voice wobbles and warbles.
Now, instead of "See Maria write beautifully," it's "See Maria change." This is an attempt to strip away the step-by-step quality of explaining myself in Soplisism. I'm trying to get back my literary form. I want to show instead of tell. I want to be the writer as well as the written word.
So if I'm abrupt, if I'm confusing, if I ply you with too many nicknames for my friends, etc., then I'm truly sorry. I don't mean to irritate anyone. I just want to be me.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
It's 10 p.m.
Do you know where your children are?
In the scrotum of the man who is eventually gonna be their father - that's where.
And said man is... well, who the fuck knows? He could be downstairs, in my kitchen, at this very moment, heating up the food that we bought today at Sofia's and attempting to give me time to write after I bit off his head angrily and scolded, "You don't take a writer's laptop from her to google the lyrics of a song that's stuck in your head after said writer has told you she feels like writing, damnit." (How's that for a run-on sentence?)
There are many names that I could give him: Coachella Killjoy, Trustfund Baby, Adorable Doormat, Would-Be-Father-of-My-Kid-If-I-Hadn't-Had-an-Abortion... But I'll call him Wanna-be Romantic.
Wanna-be Romantic and I have been seeing each other for more than two years, and he just walked up my steps, causing me to flinch as I'm utterly paraoid about people reading words as they're falling from my fingertips - especially when the words are about them and they might glean a perspective of themselves that they'd rather not know. So I'm kinda stuck. Forgot where my words were supposed to go and such.
That happens to me around him.
I'm not able to write. I'm not able to concentrate.
Now that I think about it, that description makes me sound like some lovestruck teenager. Strange,when I generally consider those qualities reasons that I could never end up with him. Not for the long haul, anyway.
I tend to think more pragmatically about love and forever.
If they happened to each other - love and forever, I mean - then the person I was to have them with better make me the best person I can be. I don't want to be some second-rate coulda-woulda-shoulda-been version of myself when there's a chance that I can be the best possible version of myself if I were to be with someone else.
And Wanna-be Romantic definitely doesn't make me what I consider the best version of myself.
Still, about half an hour ago, as we were driving home from having dropped off my mom at work, thoughts were forming in my head: lines, really, for poems that I've yet to write. I'm going to Nuyorican tomorrow morning, and while I still have to finish that poem that I'm writing for the April performance, I also have a bunch of other pieces that I'm working on. One piece is called "Past Tense", and it's about how utterly lost I felt until recently, when my personality seemed to take shape, and I closed all the doors to other options of who I might be (for better or worse). Another is a piece about my three best friends, Military Mom, Conventional Creature, and Hard-headed Heartbreaker: how they affect me in so many ways, and how I owe them so much for shaping me and loving me. And though I'm sure there was another poem that I was thinking about, it escapes me...
Anyway, Wanna-be Romantic made me think about those poems. Words and thoughts and ideas were bubbling in my brain. Though I'm not sure I can credit him with the thoughts themselves, I feel like being in his presence puts things in a certain perspective. There's something about him that makes me feel safe, and not in a cumbersome way. When we're together, I feel wholesome and innocent. I can talk and act like a 6-year-old-
I remember now what the third poem was about! It was about being thrust in a position of authority and how strange it makes me feel. I might end up joining this idea with the one for "Past Tense", but anyway, that's what it is.
- and lose myself in whatever I like. I have the childlike awe and wonder that makes me open to different situations. Everything just feels okay.
The thing is, Wanna-be Romantic leaves me with this feeling of "Okay." It's not the kind of over-the-moon-ecstacy that I want from the person I'm going to end up with...
So much for that.
I hung out with Wiccan Swinger today and felt relieved to feel close to her. We gabbed about everything, and it surprises me still that by everything I mean everything, and that her everything took longer to talk about than my everything.
Maybe her life is just more interesting than mine. Or maybe she places more importance on her friends' issues and makes them her own, while I'm loathe to do so. Or maybe she just has more general drama with her friends than I do.
All I know is that she had a lot more to talk about, and I summed up my life really succinctly: having great sex, friends are well and generally good people, family life is crazy but I'm working through it, money is crazy tight but I'm working around the clock and stooping to lows to make end's meet, and the writing's going well.
One of the books I'm reading has this great line about simplicity and how nothing is really simple. That's how I feel. You read the above description of my life and it sounds so boring. But really, there was a lot of work to get to the point where my life and my character are finely-tuned machines.
The thought's just occurred to me that maybe I'd have more to say if I went out more. But, then again, maybe not. I don't know what's worth talking about; I guess it all depends on who I'm talking to.
I can talk about the guy who pinched my ass the other night at the bar, who I slapped across the face; how instantly I felt like a bad movie cliche and thought that I should've slugged him right in his mouth. That sort of thing would've definitely appealed to Wiccan Swinger.
Or I could've talked about driving to meet her, how I attempted to text her to say that I was running late and how an unmarked cop car pulled up in the lane next to me and motioned for me to get on the shoulder of the Belt Parkway. I quickly put down my cell phone, made hand gestures like I was singing along to the song on the radio, and feigned ignorance at the cop's presence.
I could've told her how, fifteen minutes later, as I was getting off the Belt Parkway, I put my cell phone on speaker because in its dillapidated state it wouldn't send out my text or hook up to my Bluetooth. I placed it in the sunglass hutch, right next to my rearview mirror, and threw my voice in that direction. And just as I'm talking to Would-be Romantic about how scared I am that my dad's SUV would run out of gas and I'd be stranded on Flatbush, another unmarked cop car pulls up next to me and motions for me to get off the phone. I give him a look like, "What? I'm not holding it. The law is that I can't be holding my cell phone, and I'm not, asshole."
The patrol car makes that high pitched noise that all the kids mimic. I make my gesture again. I hang up with Would-be Romantic and remember how this exact thing happened to me about a year ago, and how it played out differently: I'd forgotten my Bluetooth at home, was on the phone with Would-be Romantic while my cell phone was perched in the sunglass hutch, and when the cop in the unmarked car put on his lights and chided me, I gave him the finger and continued to do so even after he'd gotten in front of me. He pulled me over and told me that I was rude for doing what I did. I asked what it was that I did, and he glared at me. "You know what you did," he said. "You gave me the finger."
"Really?" I'd taunted him. "Can you prove that?"
A year ago, the cop kept me on the shoulder of Flatbush and chided me paternally. I told him that he'd better have a reason to keep me there, or else I was taking off right then and there. He said something about how I'm being disrespectful; I asked if being disrespectful is a crime, then suggested that my lawyer answer that for me.
He let me go on my merry way.
Sure, I could've told Wiccan Swinger all about these stories, and I would've, too, if it didn't feel like she really needed to get off her chest everything that she's going through.
But these stories do little to inform someone of the changes (and progress!) I've made in my life, or the hardships I have because I'm the kind of person who overthinks and overanalyzes. Compared to the sheer contempt in Wiccan Swinger's stories, I could tell my stories served no purpose except pure amusement - and why settle for a single helping of amusement when you could get it with a side of information?
In the scrotum of the man who is eventually gonna be their father - that's where.
And said man is... well, who the fuck knows? He could be downstairs, in my kitchen, at this very moment, heating up the food that we bought today at Sofia's and attempting to give me time to write after I bit off his head angrily and scolded, "You don't take a writer's laptop from her to google the lyrics of a song that's stuck in your head after said writer has told you she feels like writing, damnit." (How's that for a run-on sentence?)
There are many names that I could give him: Coachella Killjoy, Trustfund Baby, Adorable Doormat, Would-Be-Father-of-My-Kid-If-I-Hadn't-Had-an-Abortion... But I'll call him Wanna-be Romantic.
Wanna-be Romantic and I have been seeing each other for more than two years, and he just walked up my steps, causing me to flinch as I'm utterly paraoid about people reading words as they're falling from my fingertips - especially when the words are about them and they might glean a perspective of themselves that they'd rather not know. So I'm kinda stuck. Forgot where my words were supposed to go and such.
That happens to me around him.
I'm not able to write. I'm not able to concentrate.
Now that I think about it, that description makes me sound like some lovestruck teenager. Strange,when I generally consider those qualities reasons that I could never end up with him. Not for the long haul, anyway.
I tend to think more pragmatically about love and forever.
If they happened to each other - love and forever, I mean - then the person I was to have them with better make me the best person I can be. I don't want to be some second-rate coulda-woulda-shoulda-been version of myself when there's a chance that I can be the best possible version of myself if I were to be with someone else.
And Wanna-be Romantic definitely doesn't make me what I consider the best version of myself.
Still, about half an hour ago, as we were driving home from having dropped off my mom at work, thoughts were forming in my head: lines, really, for poems that I've yet to write. I'm going to Nuyorican tomorrow morning, and while I still have to finish that poem that I'm writing for the April performance, I also have a bunch of other pieces that I'm working on. One piece is called "Past Tense", and it's about how utterly lost I felt until recently, when my personality seemed to take shape, and I closed all the doors to other options of who I might be (for better or worse). Another is a piece about my three best friends, Military Mom, Conventional Creature, and Hard-headed Heartbreaker: how they affect me in so many ways, and how I owe them so much for shaping me and loving me. And though I'm sure there was another poem that I was thinking about, it escapes me...
Anyway, Wanna-be Romantic made me think about those poems. Words and thoughts and ideas were bubbling in my brain. Though I'm not sure I can credit him with the thoughts themselves, I feel like being in his presence puts things in a certain perspective. There's something about him that makes me feel safe, and not in a cumbersome way. When we're together, I feel wholesome and innocent. I can talk and act like a 6-year-old-
I remember now what the third poem was about! It was about being thrust in a position of authority and how strange it makes me feel. I might end up joining this idea with the one for "Past Tense", but anyway, that's what it is.
- and lose myself in whatever I like. I have the childlike awe and wonder that makes me open to different situations. Everything just feels okay.
The thing is, Wanna-be Romantic leaves me with this feeling of "Okay." It's not the kind of over-the-moon-ecstacy that I want from the person I'm going to end up with...
So much for that.
I hung out with Wiccan Swinger today and felt relieved to feel close to her. We gabbed about everything, and it surprises me still that by everything I mean everything, and that her everything took longer to talk about than my everything.
Maybe her life is just more interesting than mine. Or maybe she places more importance on her friends' issues and makes them her own, while I'm loathe to do so. Or maybe she just has more general drama with her friends than I do.
All I know is that she had a lot more to talk about, and I summed up my life really succinctly: having great sex, friends are well and generally good people, family life is crazy but I'm working through it, money is crazy tight but I'm working around the clock and stooping to lows to make end's meet, and the writing's going well.
One of the books I'm reading has this great line about simplicity and how nothing is really simple. That's how I feel. You read the above description of my life and it sounds so boring. But really, there was a lot of work to get to the point where my life and my character are finely-tuned machines.
The thought's just occurred to me that maybe I'd have more to say if I went out more. But, then again, maybe not. I don't know what's worth talking about; I guess it all depends on who I'm talking to.
I can talk about the guy who pinched my ass the other night at the bar, who I slapped across the face; how instantly I felt like a bad movie cliche and thought that I should've slugged him right in his mouth. That sort of thing would've definitely appealed to Wiccan Swinger.
Or I could've talked about driving to meet her, how I attempted to text her to say that I was running late and how an unmarked cop car pulled up in the lane next to me and motioned for me to get on the shoulder of the Belt Parkway. I quickly put down my cell phone, made hand gestures like I was singing along to the song on the radio, and feigned ignorance at the cop's presence.
I could've told her how, fifteen minutes later, as I was getting off the Belt Parkway, I put my cell phone on speaker because in its dillapidated state it wouldn't send out my text or hook up to my Bluetooth. I placed it in the sunglass hutch, right next to my rearview mirror, and threw my voice in that direction. And just as I'm talking to Would-be Romantic about how scared I am that my dad's SUV would run out of gas and I'd be stranded on Flatbush, another unmarked cop car pulls up next to me and motions for me to get off the phone. I give him a look like, "What? I'm not holding it. The law is that I can't be holding my cell phone, and I'm not, asshole."
The patrol car makes that high pitched noise that all the kids mimic. I make my gesture again. I hang up with Would-be Romantic and remember how this exact thing happened to me about a year ago, and how it played out differently: I'd forgotten my Bluetooth at home, was on the phone with Would-be Romantic while my cell phone was perched in the sunglass hutch, and when the cop in the unmarked car put on his lights and chided me, I gave him the finger and continued to do so even after he'd gotten in front of me. He pulled me over and told me that I was rude for doing what I did. I asked what it was that I did, and he glared at me. "You know what you did," he said. "You gave me the finger."
"Really?" I'd taunted him. "Can you prove that?"
A year ago, the cop kept me on the shoulder of Flatbush and chided me paternally. I told him that he'd better have a reason to keep me there, or else I was taking off right then and there. He said something about how I'm being disrespectful; I asked if being disrespectful is a crime, then suggested that my lawyer answer that for me.
He let me go on my merry way.
Sure, I could've told Wiccan Swinger all about these stories, and I would've, too, if it didn't feel like she really needed to get off her chest everything that she's going through.
But these stories do little to inform someone of the changes (and progress!) I've made in my life, or the hardships I have because I'm the kind of person who overthinks and overanalyzes. Compared to the sheer contempt in Wiccan Swinger's stories, I could tell my stories served no purpose except pure amusement - and why settle for a single helping of amusement when you could get it with a side of information?
I Like to Match
What I mean is: I like my external appearance to have some kind of correlation to the way I'm feeling. That's why I'm eyeing the $5 plaid pants on Liberty Ave, as well as the $70 pumps I saw at Aldo. More likely than not, I'll spend $100 before noon on pants and dresses... maybe a purse and a pair of shoes from the Gap, too.
God, what's up with me that I wanna spend money when I'm crazy broke? Is it merely the power of suggestion? Could I be that simple minded, to want something only because someone mentioned it - even though its clearly to the detriment of my budget?
When Clairvoyant Symphony asked me to go shopping last week, I surprised myself by deciding against it. Truth is, I've been aching for some fashion therapy and I've been too busy to whip up some gorgeous cream puff of an ensemble. But I know myself. I know that if I'm unleashed (with a fashionable friend, no less!)in a clothes store, I'm in real danger of blowing my account on blouses.
Lately, though, I've reached this point where I desperately need to buy new clothes. For pragmatic reasons, I mean.
For one thing, I'm changing up my schedule. I've decided that while I'm in the States, I'm not gonna be held down by obligations or responsibilities. If anything, I'm gonna be forced to stay active and out and about because of the things that I do. This means that I need some cute but sensible shoes, etc. It also means that I have to pull together outfits with the prerequisite Maria charm, but plain enough to go from school (I'm thinking about taking summer classes), to work at afterschool programs (I'm working at one, and hoping to start getting paid to work at another soon), to work at a bar (I'm applying to bartending jobs to make end's meet). So that's casual t professional to sexy all rolled in one. And if I'm going to yoga, a party, or a political/feminist talk/event - let's not even go there...
For another thing, my body's changed. I honestly don't know how or why. My butt's filling out pants better, my feet are getting bigger, my breasts are becoming more firm, and I'm gaining muscle all around. I'm thinking it has something to do with my newfound healthy habits: going to yoga at least once a week, lifting free weights three times a week, jogging at least a mile and a half every other day, drinking lots of water, limiting meat/poultry consumption, et al. But maybe I'm pregnant?
God, that would suck. That would suck big time. I mean, first and foremost: an abortion would really fuck with my budget. For another thing: if my uterus is scraped any more times, I might as well quit using condoms altogether cuz my parts ain't gonna be workin right anyway.
My period's been irregular since I stopped going to school. Maybe academics was so thoroughly engrained in my schedule that the lack thereof is fucking with my biological clock?
Dad told me yesterday morning that he thinks he has cancer. He said it around this time in the morning, and after he left for work I took a dump, thought about him and what he'd said, and started writing a short story about my family.
I haven't been able to write short stories. I don't know what happened. I started blogging, and the next thing I knew it, all of my abilities in fiction writing were stinted. This was one of the reasons I decided to stop blogging.
Anyway, yeah: Dad told me yesterday morning that he's pretty sure he has colon cancer. He's leaking blood out of his ass. So much so that the toilet water looks like Hawaiian Punch when he's done taking a dump. Despite all this, he refuses to seea doctor. Seeing a doctor would mean having to take time off from work to do tests, biopsies, probably surgery - and, as Dad told me this time yesterday, "We can't afford for one of us to get sick right now. There's just too much at stake."
Yeah, that's righ, folks. Dad might be dying of cancer before my very eyes, but he refuses to take action because if he does, we'll be short of one bread winner and might lose our house.
(NOTE: For those who say, "But your dad's a respiratory therapist. He gets good benefits. They'll pay disability so that he's compensated for the time he misses at work": true and not true. When Mom fucked up her ankle 6 months ago, she was out of work for a while and we learned the hard way that there are certain loop holes and inconveniences to living on a disability check: you have to be injured and unable to work for a minimum of 6 weeks; you won't receive any money until that six weeks is over; you only get the bare minimum (40 hrs) of what you would've made if you were on the job (even if you regularly work three OTs a week, as my folks do); checks come in mad late; et al. That's what Dad was talking about when he said we can't afford for him to go on sick leave.)
Thing is, Dad and I have a lot in common. I get a lot of my xenophobic tendencies from him. Also, we're good at reading people and feeling out premonitions. We know in the pit of our stomachs when something's really wrong. So, the fact that Dad knows that something's really wrong with him? It means that there really is something really wrong with him.
So I get a short story out of all this, which is, I guess, the least that Fate & Karma could've granted me. It's the first time I'm fictionalizing my life, and it's difficult. I'm used to either writing straight-up fiction or straight-up non-fiction. None of this literary fiction or true fiction or whatever BS.
Little Brother is going through some things as well. I mentioned it all in the blog and I don't feel like going through with it, so I'll leave it at that.
And Mom? Well, she's a trooper. But she's physically in really bad shape. Mom's an amazing woman, but she's not very competent at much - including walking without a cane, talking coherently, and logic tests.
I feel like I'm bailing on my fam by moving overseas. I know what you're gonna say: (and by coincidence, Chopin's Death March has started to play on my iTunes) it's my life. I can do what I want. I shouldn't let them hold me back.
But how about in all the movies, when the son or daughter sticks around to pick up the pieces, and they're honorable and the audiences never once ask, "But why are they putting all of their goals on the backburner just to take care of their morbidly obese mom or parapalegic dad or drunk uncle or retarded brother?" We fancy ourselves to be the kind of people who admire and like those who tend to their kin, but when we come face to face with such a person, the first thing we do is shake our heads in confusion and/or consternation.
Forget Asian culture. Forget American culture. Just think of family. What that word means to you, what it does for you, and what you're willing to do for it. Now tell me that I'm crazy for rethinking my entire life plan.
Because what is life but the acting out of emotions and plans and destiny? Shouldn't we all be able to live as those who knew how to love? And who better to love than our family? The people who have taken us in and nurtured us when everything else slammed doors in our faces; the people who continue to love us, even after we've shown our worst attributes -? If not them, then who warrants our undivided attention?
Or are we simply narcissistic, above all else?
I see that my family is circling the drain financially, emotionally, physically, and I can't just stand idly by and plan my move. It's just not that easy.
So maybe I'm setting myself up for failure? Maybe I figure that if I blow all my money on clothes, I won't be able to pay my bills, and thus be forced to stay in New York to take care of my family.
That's very probable.
But even more probable is that I'm scared and I need to feel in control of something, and what easier thing to dominate than one's external personal appearance?
God, what's up with me that I wanna spend money when I'm crazy broke? Is it merely the power of suggestion? Could I be that simple minded, to want something only because someone mentioned it - even though its clearly to the detriment of my budget?
When Clairvoyant Symphony asked me to go shopping last week, I surprised myself by deciding against it. Truth is, I've been aching for some fashion therapy and I've been too busy to whip up some gorgeous cream puff of an ensemble. But I know myself. I know that if I'm unleashed (with a fashionable friend, no less!)in a clothes store, I'm in real danger of blowing my account on blouses.
Lately, though, I've reached this point where I desperately need to buy new clothes. For pragmatic reasons, I mean.
For one thing, I'm changing up my schedule. I've decided that while I'm in the States, I'm not gonna be held down by obligations or responsibilities. If anything, I'm gonna be forced to stay active and out and about because of the things that I do. This means that I need some cute but sensible shoes, etc. It also means that I have to pull together outfits with the prerequisite Maria charm, but plain enough to go from school (I'm thinking about taking summer classes), to work at afterschool programs (I'm working at one, and hoping to start getting paid to work at another soon), to work at a bar (I'm applying to bartending jobs to make end's meet). So that's casual t professional to sexy all rolled in one. And if I'm going to yoga, a party, or a political/feminist talk/event - let's not even go there...
For another thing, my body's changed. I honestly don't know how or why. My butt's filling out pants better, my feet are getting bigger, my breasts are becoming more firm, and I'm gaining muscle all around. I'm thinking it has something to do with my newfound healthy habits: going to yoga at least once a week, lifting free weights three times a week, jogging at least a mile and a half every other day, drinking lots of water, limiting meat/poultry consumption, et al. But maybe I'm pregnant?
God, that would suck. That would suck big time. I mean, first and foremost: an abortion would really fuck with my budget. For another thing: if my uterus is scraped any more times, I might as well quit using condoms altogether cuz my parts ain't gonna be workin right anyway.
My period's been irregular since I stopped going to school. Maybe academics was so thoroughly engrained in my schedule that the lack thereof is fucking with my biological clock?
Dad told me yesterday morning that he thinks he has cancer. He said it around this time in the morning, and after he left for work I took a dump, thought about him and what he'd said, and started writing a short story about my family.
I haven't been able to write short stories. I don't know what happened. I started blogging, and the next thing I knew it, all of my abilities in fiction writing were stinted. This was one of the reasons I decided to stop blogging.
Anyway, yeah: Dad told me yesterday morning that he's pretty sure he has colon cancer. He's leaking blood out of his ass. So much so that the toilet water looks like Hawaiian Punch when he's done taking a dump. Despite all this, he refuses to seea doctor. Seeing a doctor would mean having to take time off from work to do tests, biopsies, probably surgery - and, as Dad told me this time yesterday, "We can't afford for one of us to get sick right now. There's just too much at stake."
Yeah, that's righ, folks. Dad might be dying of cancer before my very eyes, but he refuses to take action because if he does, we'll be short of one bread winner and might lose our house.
(NOTE: For those who say, "But your dad's a respiratory therapist. He gets good benefits. They'll pay disability so that he's compensated for the time he misses at work": true and not true. When Mom fucked up her ankle 6 months ago, she was out of work for a while and we learned the hard way that there are certain loop holes and inconveniences to living on a disability check: you have to be injured and unable to work for a minimum of 6 weeks; you won't receive any money until that six weeks is over; you only get the bare minimum (40 hrs) of what you would've made if you were on the job (even if you regularly work three OTs a week, as my folks do); checks come in mad late; et al. That's what Dad was talking about when he said we can't afford for him to go on sick leave.)
Thing is, Dad and I have a lot in common. I get a lot of my xenophobic tendencies from him. Also, we're good at reading people and feeling out premonitions. We know in the pit of our stomachs when something's really wrong. So, the fact that Dad knows that something's really wrong with him? It means that there really is something really wrong with him.
So I get a short story out of all this, which is, I guess, the least that Fate & Karma could've granted me. It's the first time I'm fictionalizing my life, and it's difficult. I'm used to either writing straight-up fiction or straight-up non-fiction. None of this literary fiction or true fiction or whatever BS.
Little Brother is going through some things as well. I mentioned it all in the blog and I don't feel like going through with it, so I'll leave it at that.
And Mom? Well, she's a trooper. But she's physically in really bad shape. Mom's an amazing woman, but she's not very competent at much - including walking without a cane, talking coherently, and logic tests.
I feel like I'm bailing on my fam by moving overseas. I know what you're gonna say: (and by coincidence, Chopin's Death March has started to play on my iTunes) it's my life. I can do what I want. I shouldn't let them hold me back.
But how about in all the movies, when the son or daughter sticks around to pick up the pieces, and they're honorable and the audiences never once ask, "But why are they putting all of their goals on the backburner just to take care of their morbidly obese mom or parapalegic dad or drunk uncle or retarded brother?" We fancy ourselves to be the kind of people who admire and like those who tend to their kin, but when we come face to face with such a person, the first thing we do is shake our heads in confusion and/or consternation.
Forget Asian culture. Forget American culture. Just think of family. What that word means to you, what it does for you, and what you're willing to do for it. Now tell me that I'm crazy for rethinking my entire life plan.
Because what is life but the acting out of emotions and plans and destiny? Shouldn't we all be able to live as those who knew how to love? And who better to love than our family? The people who have taken us in and nurtured us when everything else slammed doors in our faces; the people who continue to love us, even after we've shown our worst attributes -? If not them, then who warrants our undivided attention?
Or are we simply narcissistic, above all else?
I see that my family is circling the drain financially, emotionally, physically, and I can't just stand idly by and plan my move. It's just not that easy.
So maybe I'm setting myself up for failure? Maybe I figure that if I blow all my money on clothes, I won't be able to pay my bills, and thus be forced to stay in New York to take care of my family.
That's very probable.
But even more probable is that I'm scared and I need to feel in control of something, and what easier thing to dominate than one's external personal appearance?
I Blog, Therefore I Am
I was serious when I said I'd stop blogging. Solipsism might have been a blog, but this? This is more akin to a column.
What's the difference?
Well, maybe I'm way off base, but last I checked, blogging was all about community. You participate in a give and take when you blog: people read about your life, your wanderings and your ponderings, and they make comments about it. Ideas float around in a two-way street of information.
What I'm doing here is one-sided. I say what I say and it's not up for public discussion. I guess.
I do what I do and - as happens in person - I ignore most peoples' reactions. For the most part.
I punch as big a hole as I like, and I'm mute to any ramifications. No?
In space, no one can hear you scream. In cyber space, the more you type the louder you scream, and yet the claim is that it's an egalitarian venue, in which anyone and everyone can read your screams or sighs or smiles.
What does it all mean? What does this all mean? Where has the poetry, the artistry, the definitive nature of my blog posts gone?
The way of the dodo bird, my friend.
I got off the phone with an old friend, Track Star. Track Star sat in front of me in Honors Sophomore English way back in high school, at Brooklyn Tech. Our teacher was a bald gay man by the name of Dr. Cocchiarelli, who was definitely the first language teacher to truly demand great work from me. (And for that, I'm eternally grateful - even if he did end up failing me.)
Track Star was always an aloof kid, sweet, kind, smart. There was always something a little different about his personality. It's the kind of different that most people, I suppose, would describe as something off - but me? I have a feeling that I would've found a way to make Hitler, Mao, and Pol Pot my friends if given the chance.
Not to say of course that Track Star has much in common- I mean, he has the basic human tendencies in common with- He- Well... He's... Hmm...
After speaking with him for almost 40 minutes (after not having spoken to him in almost a decade), I can safely assert the following: he has the inquisitive nature of someone looking for definitive answers; he also has the penchant to use whatever definitive answers he's attained to sway situations to his favor.
Now, let me say for the record what I told him: I'm guilty of a God complex. At least, I was.
I've always been good at reading people, "figuring them out", simplifying strangers to equations and cliches so that I could do with them what I wanted. It's a strangely unique talent, I suppose. I've met only a handful of people who can do this, and more than a few of them use their ability for evil. Or some variation thereof.
It's because of this God complex that I was able to manipulate people and situations. I spent a great deal of my life being disingenuous and mean, and during that time, this skill came in plenty handy. I would enter a situation, assess the players involved, and instantly come up with a plan to have my way.
Sometimes, as I got better at reading scenarios and personalities, I'd make up a goal just to have an excuse to play with peoples' lives.
I didn't care what the outcome was; people ended up beat up, heartbroken, destitute, alone, unhappy, close to dead: I didn't care.
Sometimes, I'd bring people to the brink of financial ruin, to an inch of their lives, to a rock and a hard place, just to pull them out of that dire situation. And all this just to prove to them and myself that I could do it. I was smarter. Prettier. Better.
I don't know exactly when I started to change, or how exactly the epiphany came to me, but little by little I stopped being that person. I had amassed enough street cred to do as I pleased, and no one fucked with me. I had enough friends in high (enough) places to do as I pleased.
I just decided not to do anything evil. Not if I could help it.
So I found myself in strange situations and I always bailed my ass out of tight jams. I told myself that nothing I was doing was wrong, per se, but different. I told myself that I was just being an individual, going where the wind blew me.
I didn't take into account the fact that I'd long ago cemented a way of life, a persona, an ego which permeated whatever corporeal shell I showed. I was convinced that I could be reincarnated as a stork,a snail, a salamander, and this potent potion of power would still seep through my pores like pheremones.
Maybe there is a place where souls go before we are born. A place where the bare bones of our psyches are made and cemented. Maybe once the foundation for our personalities is set, there is no turning back, and everything we do is only a manifestation of that subliminal secret of our subconsciouses.
Whatever the truth behind the lives we lead, that was who I was. And, sometimes, when I find myself face to face with the remnants of a variation of myself, I doubt what I do. Am I merely doing as I've been programmed from the beginning? And if so, is this program universal? Or am I the only individual with this unique set of 1s and 0s?
Or am I changing? Is it possible that I was once the foundation set by some other power, and that I'm presently molding myself into something wholly my own? Or is it possil that I'm in charge of what I do, and that I'm really making the decisions of my life, and that that's the way its always been?
Like I tried unsuccessfully to say to Track Star, none of the answers really matter. At last, they don't to me.
I'm a philosopher. I will always seach for truth.
But the search for truth is like the wise person's way of searching for their soulmate: it's a passive search.
We know what we want and we are able to identify it when/if we find it. But in the meantime, why spend so much time thinking about these unanswerable questions that better men and women have thought about? Why waste precious moments attempting to come to a conclusion that might very well prove our undoing?
The truth,to me, is that we live every day according to a pathos that is unique to each individual. We find reasons to wake up, people to live for, goals to aspire to. And whether all that is by our own hands or the hands of some greater power, this is what we do. And it's great.
What's the difference?
Well, maybe I'm way off base, but last I checked, blogging was all about community. You participate in a give and take when you blog: people read about your life, your wanderings and your ponderings, and they make comments about it. Ideas float around in a two-way street of information.
What I'm doing here is one-sided. I say what I say and it's not up for public discussion. I guess.
I do what I do and - as happens in person - I ignore most peoples' reactions. For the most part.
I punch as big a hole as I like, and I'm mute to any ramifications. No?
In space, no one can hear you scream. In cyber space, the more you type the louder you scream, and yet the claim is that it's an egalitarian venue, in which anyone and everyone can read your screams or sighs or smiles.
What does it all mean? What does this all mean? Where has the poetry, the artistry, the definitive nature of my blog posts gone?
The way of the dodo bird, my friend.
I got off the phone with an old friend, Track Star. Track Star sat in front of me in Honors Sophomore English way back in high school, at Brooklyn Tech. Our teacher was a bald gay man by the name of Dr. Cocchiarelli, who was definitely the first language teacher to truly demand great work from me. (And for that, I'm eternally grateful - even if he did end up failing me.)
Track Star was always an aloof kid, sweet, kind, smart. There was always something a little different about his personality. It's the kind of different that most people, I suppose, would describe as something off - but me? I have a feeling that I would've found a way to make Hitler, Mao, and Pol Pot my friends if given the chance.
Not to say of course that Track Star has much in common- I mean, he has the basic human tendencies in common with- He- Well... He's... Hmm...
After speaking with him for almost 40 minutes (after not having spoken to him in almost a decade), I can safely assert the following: he has the inquisitive nature of someone looking for definitive answers; he also has the penchant to use whatever definitive answers he's attained to sway situations to his favor.
Now, let me say for the record what I told him: I'm guilty of a God complex. At least, I was.
I've always been good at reading people, "figuring them out", simplifying strangers to equations and cliches so that I could do with them what I wanted. It's a strangely unique talent, I suppose. I've met only a handful of people who can do this, and more than a few of them use their ability for evil. Or some variation thereof.
It's because of this God complex that I was able to manipulate people and situations. I spent a great deal of my life being disingenuous and mean, and during that time, this skill came in plenty handy. I would enter a situation, assess the players involved, and instantly come up with a plan to have my way.
Sometimes, as I got better at reading scenarios and personalities, I'd make up a goal just to have an excuse to play with peoples' lives.
I didn't care what the outcome was; people ended up beat up, heartbroken, destitute, alone, unhappy, close to dead: I didn't care.
Sometimes, I'd bring people to the brink of financial ruin, to an inch of their lives, to a rock and a hard place, just to pull them out of that dire situation. And all this just to prove to them and myself that I could do it. I was smarter. Prettier. Better.
I don't know exactly when I started to change, or how exactly the epiphany came to me, but little by little I stopped being that person. I had amassed enough street cred to do as I pleased, and no one fucked with me. I had enough friends in high (enough) places to do as I pleased.
I just decided not to do anything evil. Not if I could help it.
So I found myself in strange situations and I always bailed my ass out of tight jams. I told myself that nothing I was doing was wrong, per se, but different. I told myself that I was just being an individual, going where the wind blew me.
I didn't take into account the fact that I'd long ago cemented a way of life, a persona, an ego which permeated whatever corporeal shell I showed. I was convinced that I could be reincarnated as a stork,a snail, a salamander, and this potent potion of power would still seep through my pores like pheremones.
Maybe there is a place where souls go before we are born. A place where the bare bones of our psyches are made and cemented. Maybe once the foundation for our personalities is set, there is no turning back, and everything we do is only a manifestation of that subliminal secret of our subconsciouses.
Whatever the truth behind the lives we lead, that was who I was. And, sometimes, when I find myself face to face with the remnants of a variation of myself, I doubt what I do. Am I merely doing as I've been programmed from the beginning? And if so, is this program universal? Or am I the only individual with this unique set of 1s and 0s?
Or am I changing? Is it possible that I was once the foundation set by some other power, and that I'm presently molding myself into something wholly my own? Or is it possil that I'm in charge of what I do, and that I'm really making the decisions of my life, and that that's the way its always been?
Like I tried unsuccessfully to say to Track Star, none of the answers really matter. At last, they don't to me.
I'm a philosopher. I will always seach for truth.
But the search for truth is like the wise person's way of searching for their soulmate: it's a passive search.
We know what we want and we are able to identify it when/if we find it. But in the meantime, why spend so much time thinking about these unanswerable questions that better men and women have thought about? Why waste precious moments attempting to come to a conclusion that might very well prove our undoing?
The truth,to me, is that we live every day according to a pathos that is unique to each individual. We find reasons to wake up, people to live for, goals to aspire to. And whether all that is by our own hands or the hands of some greater power, this is what we do. And it's great.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)