Sunday, August 14, 2005

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I posted over on Layla this morning, rather than here...so if you wish to read, go check there.

Friday, August 12, 2005

This morning...

I went back over to my other blog and republished the blog posts that I decided I wanted to keep public. Now I have an itch to start posting there again. But I'm not sure that I will. It's something I need to think on for a bit.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

...

It's been a few days, so I figured I may as well write something. Let's see - still no cat. Our cat connection proved unreliable. I still plan on getting one in the very near future; just not from this source.

Monday night - Drank homemade Screwdrivers/Bloody Mary's, as well as a beer or two. At about 2 am, the husband and I started bickering. I had waited two days to tell him something that I guess he thought I should have told him immediately, but hadn't because I feared his reaction. When I did tell him, he did get upset, even though it was nothing I had done, but rather, something someone I hadn't seen in six months had done. A guy I once slept with, back in February, who didn't know I had gotten back together with my husband by now, came knocking on our door, drunk, at 5:30 am on Sunday morning. I didn't answer, because I figured that anyone who wanted to drop by the apartment could do so at a decent hour; and that anyone who thought it appropriate to visit at 5:30 am after a Saturday night was probably up to no good. And so I ignored the door knocking, as I dried dishes in the kitchen. I then recieved an IM on Yahoo from the guy, telling me he had just stopped by. I told him I had gotten back with my husband and that it was not a good idea to come over. He apologized, etc., and I ended the conversation and ignored his future advances. He sent me a message along the lines of "Look, I understand you're back with your husband, but if you ever want to have a good time, just let me know. I can keep a secret." Only in much more graphic and, to be honest offensive terms. I didn't reply.

So when I told my husband this on Monday night, he did become angry at me. He told me, "Get out; you no longer have a place to live." This is pretty much a weekly occurence in our household; either he tells me to leave, or I threaten to leave, always over something trivial, and usually, I think, just to alleviate our boredom. So, I threw my makeup and a couple of other things in my backpack, put on my shoes, and hiked out into the night, actually happy to have fresh air and walk off all the vodka that had my head in a haze.

I walked towards downtown (I live only a few blocks from the area). Once downtown, I walked what I consider my "safe route" - the streets that I feel I am in no danger of being accosted by creeps. The night was SO nice. I was in a fairly pleasant mood, when I walked past Adam's condo. Immediately, my mood soured. Nervousness and doubt, about everything, about life as a whole, set in. I wondered to myself, Is he home? Is he awake? Is he up there with his girlfriend (I doubted that, as she has two children at home and has a job she needs to get up for in the morning)?

I considered going into the lobby and buzzing him, but I stopped myself. First and foremost, I am married, and happy to be. There was no reason to go and screw things up again due to a vodka haze and reminiscences of a past lover. Furthermore, Adam had broken my heart, and although we hadn't parted on bad terms, we also hadn't parted on good terms. We were neutral, and it would be best to keep it that way. Also, I didn't want to be that needy girl, the one who can't get over a relationship so she comes knocking at 2:30 am looking to talk things out. And so, I kept walking.

I walked my "safe route" a couple more times...sort of a loop through downtown. The next time I came to his building, I didn't even glance, just kept walking, and tried to keep him out of my head. Next thing I knew, I was checking my pockets and backpack for change, and racking my brain trying to figure out where the nearest payphone was located. Hey, it couldn't hurt to call, right? I realized that I didn't have any change, only cash, so I stopped by a candy vending machine a few blocks away, bought two things, so that I would recieve two quarters back in change. I walked a couple of blocks further to the nearest payphone I could think of. I didn't really think through what I might say if Adam answered the phone. I just assumed that he wouldn't answer. I told myself that I would just leave a quick, friendly (but not too friendly) message on his voice mail, letting him know I was bored, lonely, and thinking about him that night. In reality, I just wanted to hear his voice, be it live or recorded. And so I put the quarters in and dialed. It rang; I waited. The recorded voice mail operator came on. It was one of those fill in the blank recordings, in which the owner of the voice mail just sort of speaks their name at the appropriate moment. So, at the appropriate moment, his voice came on...just his name, "Adam D___", spoken in an upbeat, sing-song voice. I waited for the tone, but before it came, I hung up. There was no message that needed to be left. It was bad enough that I had stooped to calling at all. As it was, he would see the payphone's number on his caller ID in the morning and know that it had been me (I had called him from that phone a couple of times, when we were dealing with the pregnancy).

Humbled and ashamed, I walked home, wondering what the pull was, and why I found it so hard to forget him.

At home, my husband, still drunk, I imagine, asked me "Why did you come home?" I just shut myself in another room and read 300 pages of Anna Karenina. And then slept a couple of hours.

Tuesday: I woke up, surprisingly, without a hangover. Drinking and walking has always been a surefire cure for me - I simply walk until I'm sober, come home, do something productive (such as reading 300 pages of Tolstoy), and crash for a couple of hours, before I'm ready to start another long day. If you're not drunk when you fall asleep, you skip the hangover the next day.

It was my husband's day off. We spent the day cleaning and rearranging. We had just gotten new furniture, so we had the daunting task of making it fit in our small apartment. For an hour or so, we fought; this time about something different than the previous night's fight. We somehow got on the subject of me dancing, and he said that if I ever decided to go back to it, we were over. I replied that I will never be able to make that promise, and that I might as well just leave now, to save him the trouble of us breaking up over it later. I said that if he couldn't accept the job that I had chosen to get me through college, there was no use even trying to make our relationship work. I actually told him that if forced to make the choice, I would choose dancing over him. I over-reacted, seriously believing that the only thing left for me to do was leave. I went through my belongings, and came upon the startling revelation that everything I own that I care about enough to be unable to leave behind, fits in two backpacks. When he realized that I was serious about leaving, he said that the only thing he asks of me is that I try not to cheat on him. After more yelling and tears, I relented; but still thought to myself, Isn't it better to leave now and save myself the trouble of having to leave later, when I inevitably hurt him again? But, we reconciled, got the apartment put back together, and ended up having a pretty good evening, curled up on the new sofa-chaise watching movies.

Wednesday: Long day, because I actually got up at a normal hour and kept myself busy. The hours drag on and on until my husband gets home from work at about 8:00. At some point during the day, I realized that Peter Jennings had died a couple days before, and was appalled that I had been so self-absorbed that I hadn't caught this bit of news. Wednesday night, watched most of Season Two of Sex and the City on DVD, and drank a great beer put out by a local brewery (which is in the restaurant that Adam's brother runs). The beer was great. Very bold. I only kicked back three, and all of a sudden the room was spinning and I found myself running into the bathroom, where I vomited for the first time since I quit working at the bar. This usually only happens after about 12 Morgan and Cokes, so it was an unpleasant surprise. I guess the better the beer, the lower my tolerance. The husband and I stayed up drinking until about 5 am, and then got in a fight about something and I slept in the bedroom, and he slept in the living room.

Thursday: That's today, of course. Believe it or not, I slept ALL day. Until after 8:00 tonight, when my husband got home. I read this morning for about a half hour, on the couch, and then zonked out for 10 more hours, only waking up at 2:00pm to pop my birth control pill down my throat and go back to sleep. Tonight, I finished watching that season of Sex and the City, drank a screwdriver, began watching Permanent Midnight, and then decided to come blog instead. So, it's just me, headphones (a compilation playlist of Counting Crows, Dido, Ben Harper, Radiohead, and other favorites...all of which somehow remind me of Adam for some reason or another, which isn't intentional), beer, and vodka. Now I've recapped my week and don't know where to go from here.

Tonight when I was watching the beginning of Permanent Midnight, I blurted out, "I spend my whole life relating to things. It's all I'm good at."

I think that pretty much sums it up, for now. Oh, don't get me wrong...the more I drink tonight, the more I'll probably end up blogging. I'm at my most productive when things are a little bit hazy, and when I'm a little bit depressed.

Monday, August 08, 2005

...

Drat. I went to sleep at a a normal hour last night (about 11:00, I think), and woke up at a normal hour (8:00). And I thought, Wonderful! I've finally gotten my hours turned around. I should be fine now!

Nope. At 11:00 am, I zonked out for what was SUPPOSED to be an hour long nap (even set the alarm). Now, at 5:00, I've just woken up. I've wasted my day sleeping, but dammit, I just can NOT stay awake in the daytime. It's quite bizarre.

Ah, well. I don't have too much to do. The dishes, of course (of which there are very few dirty), and then reading more of my book (I got a little over 100 pages into Anna Karenina this morning). And, of course, my cat, which really is supposed to be delivered tonight.

I'm in a condiment phase. Everything I eat must be bland, so that I can cover it up with the taste of whatever condiment I feel like eating at the time. Lately, things must taste like either celery salt or Cholula hot sauce. A couple of weeks ago it was guacamole - it I couldn't dip it in guac, or spread guac on it, I didn't want any. I've always been somewhat of a condiment fiend - just one of my harmless quirks, i guess.

Well, I'm a awake now, so...on to life. I'll respond to my comments later (I've read them...but I'm lazy).

Take care, loves.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

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The night was nice. But now it's over.

I crawled into bed about an hour ago, incredibly tired and with every intention of going to sleep. He fell asleep first, which is expected since he's been up since 8 am, whereas I didn't go to sleep at all until 10 am and just woke up at 7:30 pm, a mere 9 or so hours ago. I lay there, eyes closed, tossing and turning, contemplating a lot of things, until finally I just couldn't lie there anymore. I became restless, and now here I sit, typing a post about, really, nothing at all. I suppose I could finish working on the project we began last night, to surprise him when he wakes up and it's done already. Or, I could clean the kitchen - but I'm so loud, and don't want to disturb him as he sleeps. I could finish reading Hadji Murad, but then I feel like I'm wasting my waking hours, when there are so many more important things I really need to get done.

I've been down, lately. There's no logical reason for it, but it's overtaken me, this mood I'm in. It is August - usually the month my depression starts taking hold. It generally lasts through January and then lightens up. I am at my absolute worst in November and December. I can't explain it - it just happens this way. Unfortunately, this year I hardly had a break from it - the mistakes I made during last year's bout of depression left a lot of wreckage I had to deal with after my usual cycle of depression should have cleared up. And now, only about a month after returning to normal, emotionally, August has rolled around again, and with it, this dark mood.

Well, I suppose it's just something I'll have to contend with. I have for as long as I can remember. Looking at old report cards, and teacher's comments, I have found that it began in 6th grade, this strange Fall/Winter depression. These are the months in which I stop living. Ah, well. I'm getting a kitten tomorrow. My husband's co-worker is dropping it by for us. I have never raised a cat from kittenhood. I've always gotten them as adults. But, I'm excited. I will name the cat either Ivan or Natasha, depending on gender. It's very important for me right now to have something to nurture and care for. It takes my mind off of myself and my gloom.

I also feel this great need to create. Guess it's time to take advantage of my up-all-night wakefulness and put this restless energy to good use. There are a million things I could work on creating. I'll just have to think of which one will be easiest to see to completion the soonest - meaning, which gives me the most excitement and enjoyment.

That's just the thing, though. Right now, I don't feel I am looking forward to anything. It's all so dull. And I'm so sad all the time. I walk around looking like I just returned from a funeral.

Oh, well. It's nothing new...

Friday, August 05, 2005

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I don't really know what to say right now; I'm pretty much speechless. My brother has resurfaced. We live in the same city, but I have not seen him in five years. This has been his choice, not mine. He sees it best not to have any contact with any of his family, even the little sister, eleven years his junior, who he helped raise (that would be me, of course).

Today, my husband was at work (a furniture rental place), and my brother walked in. He wanted to look at furniture. My husband gave him an application, already recognizing him and knowing how much it meant to me to see how my brother was doing. My brother took the application home, filled it out, and brought it back in. He filled it out under his girlfriend/fiance's name, and used himself as a reference (although the entire app is written in his own writing).

Shockingly enough, I see that his girlfriend works, in fact has worked for four years, as a dancer at a strip club that I had been planning on going to work at in a few months, before school starts (not the club I quit a few months ago, but one which I have never worked at). So, if and when that happens, I guess my brother will have no choice but to be back in my life in some capacity, whether he likes it or not.

He always did have a stripper addiction. When I was a child, he dated mainly strippers - they were my mother figures. This led to me becoming one. I knew there was nothing shameful or dirty about the profession, because my brother taught me that. He stopped dating dancers for years - he married his best friend/roommate in 1995 (because she was pregnant), they had a son (who is now ten years old), and then a year or so ago, he divorced her and announced shortly after that he is getting married (apparantly to this dancer). He and this girl moved to another state for awhile (according to this application), and just relocated to this city three days ago.

I came thisclose to going to work at this strip club a couple of weeks ago, and still had/have concrete plans of working there within the next few months. Well, if he has to see his little sister nude, that's his problem. Maybe it'll teach him a lesson. If he would have kept in contact with me, he would have known I was a dancer. There aren't a lot of clubs in the area, and very few which are decent, so if he's going to marry a dancer, and I am a dancer, well, we're just going to have to get used to the fact that the city, and the profession, is too small for us to not run into each other once in awhile. He raised me to be the person I am, so he shouldn't be surprised at the profession I have chosen to get me through school.

Still, it's just bizarre. For so long I've almost felt he was a figment of my imagination...and then, just like that, he walks back into my life to rent some furniture.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

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Seconds, minutes, hours fall away from me - sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow, but never just right.

...

There is something I have always loved about the purity of a new blog. Endless possibilities...a future in the making. Love it.

...

I just read Family Happiness by Leo Tolstoy. I have never in my life come across a story that I have related to as strongly as this one. I must have underlined 40% of the text (yes, I'm an underliner...I can't read a book without a pen in my hand). It was as if I were the narrator - I came upon thoughts that I can recall having thought, as well as emotions, and even events, which related to my own life. It always amazes me when an author is able to do that for me.

It pains me to say it (as it feels like blasphemy, to me), but Dostoevsky may have some competition on his hands for the coveted "Jane's Favorite Writer" award. I did love Tolstoy's War and Peace but Dostoevsky's works still have a slight advantage over Tolstoy's. I relate to Dostoevsky's depraved characters a lot. But Tolstoy - wow, I'm impressed. He definitely has the ability to get under my skin, or more accurately, to let me step into his character's skin. It is as if I am not detached from them at all - it is as if I were they, and they me. I guess I'll see for sure when I begin Anna Karenina in a day or so (I first have to finish a few of Tolstoy's shorter works) how Leo stacks up to good old Fyodor. I have read most of Anna Karenina before, but somehow put it down and never got to the finish. I remember it had the same effect on me as Family Happiness did tonight. I look forward to beginning the book again and seeing it through to completion within the next week. Ahh, what would I do without my books?

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

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But blogging is one of the few GOOD habits I have, and I won't give it up so easily. I have given up too much, too many times before because of this man, and I will not go down without a fight this time. A mere change of residence will suit me just fine, thank you.

...

Some days, things happen. Your safe haven is tread upon. You feel violated, broken, beat down - and all it takes is one sentence from the right person to do it. I will not share that sentence with you. That sentence is my own. Suffice it to say that I shared too much about someone I should have shared nothing about at all. He found himself, he found my words, he responded with a simple sentence, and my safe place was shattered. I tore it down, I buried it, and hope I haven't torn down and buried myself along with it. In burying my old words, have I somehow prevented myself from finding new ones? Only time will tell.

How much is safe to share? How much can a person safely tell about themselves without telling too much about other people?

Why couldn't I have been happy with anonymity? Why did I feel the need to give so much of myself away?

All I'll give away in this post, is this. One tiny fragment of myself and who I am. I love the taste of celery salt.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

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When will the chaos end and the stability finally begin?

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Isn't it amazing what we can accomplish when people give us room to breathe?

Isn't it amazing what we can produce when no one is telling us how?

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I often wonder, Do we know our enemies better than we know our friends? Do we care about them more? It certainly seems that we think about them more.

When each new dawn approaches, who are we? Do we actually change with each day?

Do we grow as a result of our relationships to others, or do we shrink? Do we find ourselves based on our proximity to and understanding of others?

Does solitude lead to bliss or misery? Is socialization necessary for a healthy outlook?

What is the essence of pure happiness? Is love the antithesis of happiness?

Is competition a stronger force than positive alliances? Which will break us, and which will push us forward?

Is a setback really a setback, or just another opportunity to test our fortitude and draw from within us the will to fight and march ahead & be strong?

Should we heed warnings and tread lightly in accordance, or should we march on, charge fearlessly onto the battlefield called life?

But that is my fatal flaw. I see life as a battlefield - indeed, it is not! Playing field, yes, where there will be winners & losers but ultimately everyone gains something, if only experience and the opportunity to have felt defeat. In a battlefield, the loser’s a dead man, and can’t gain anything. The winner is a villain, and takes with him only guilt.

This is not battlefield earth. Life isn’t a fight, but a game of strategy. A game needs multiple players. We feed off of each other, anticipating moves, trying to outsmart our opponent, while ultimately knowing that when we wipe them off of the map, not only is the game over for them, but for us as well. The joy isn’t in winning, but in playing. When it’s over, it is, and it can’t be gotten back.

Do we fail to play our absolute best because we don’t want to win? Don’t want the game to end? Don’t want the easy out? Our adrenaline starts pounding when someone else holds the upper hand. We don’t always enjoy the ease of being on top - sometimes we want to be pinned, so that our victory will be all the more sweeter as we celebrate how we matched our opponent’s wit and proceeded to overturn each obstacle. If we play against a dummy, we are no better for winning.

If you’re going to play, play with the best, even if you don’t think you have a shot. Seek out those who have mastered this game of life. And show yourself that you are on the same court and can use your mind just as well, and can at least match them, if not overturn them completely.

Monday, July 11, 2005

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Glass tries to be hard, even portrays the illusion of hardness. But if you throw it on the ground, or drop it, or squeeze it hard enough, it will break.

It's the same with people. Some of us are glass.

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Why would someone seek pleasure in purposely making someone else desire something that they are just going to feel guilty about if they obtain? Torturous. If you dangle someone's vice in front of them for long enough, chances are they will eventually grab at it, no matter how strong they like to believe they are. Willpower is guilt's frail younger sibling. You're put in charge of willpower, you lose him, and guilt comes and kicks you in the ass.

...

Is music the secret to time travel? Sometimes it feels it can take us back, but can it also propel us forward?

It does neither. Music can not move us, timewise. It can make us feel like it has, though. And we want to believe it, want to believe it can "take us back" to another time and place...so have faith (see below post), and when the song is over, we're still sitting in the same spot, in the same chair, and the date on the calendar remains the same.

But we would almost swear we had gone back in time. Once again, an illusion. Or a delusion. What's the difference between the two?

And has a song ever been sincerely life-changing? Once again, the intangible. We can say it has, but it can't be proven.

To me, songs are almost like bottled fragments of time. Time and music are both intangible, though.

Perception. When I hear a song, I hear it the way I hear it. But does the guy next to me hear it exactly the same? I'm not referring to preference; only perception.

The unknowable...and yet I seek to know.

...

And why such a strong need for identification? Identification as both tangible and intangible. Proof that we are who we are. Proof of age, proof of name, proof that when we see our reflection, it is really us. Identification of self. Identification with certain groups. Identification of our beliefs, our moral code, our feelings. Why do we so fear the unidentified, the unnamed?

If something can not be named, does that automatically make it bigger than us?

And when we attempt to name the unnamable, to know the unknowable, why is it that it cheapens it so much? I think it is because we are being false towards whatever we are trying to name. We are being selfish. "This is what I want love to feel like, so I'll call this love and pretend that I have some." We are thieves. We are stealing this unnamable emotion, and trying to mold it to fit our wants. And it works. We have that power. The one thing no one can dispute is our emotions, because only we know for sure what we feel...and if we believe in an emotion enough, and label it as we wish it were, it automatically becomes true for us. We can shout it from the highest peak and no one can prove that it isn't so.

Am I saying that "faith" is a bad thing, because we are trying to name the unnameable and know the unknowable? Because we have an obsession with identification? Perhaps. Just like emotions, maybe faith also becomes tainted once you attach a name to it.

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Is there anyone out there whose life is not a delusion? And would we have the ability to even judge that, if we wanted to?

In Labyrinth, the guy on the door says "One of us always tells the truth, and one of us always lies."

I think he's lying. I think they both are. When have you ever known of anyone to "always" tell the truth?

I think it may be an impossibility.

Telling the truth is random, an accident, something that "just happens" occasionally. Same thing with lying. Same thing with life. And death, if you want to get technical.

Sometimes the surreality of a moment takes my breath away. Sometimes the surreality of a memory eats at me. Was it really ever so beautiful? Was I really ever so breathless? And where's the tangible proof that any of it even happened?

How can we show ourselves that we didn't just imagine it all?

What is a feeling?

...

How much can silence say? How often do words fail to truly convey?

Sometimes I appear to be full of life and laughter, yet am empty and numb inside. Can't anyone sense the obvious fakeness? Or am I really that good, that all of my lies seem sincere.

Sometimes, I appear to be silent and melancholy, but am actually screaming. I feel like my eyes must show it, they must betray me. But no one notices.

It is quite possible to yell at someone with your eyes. It is quite possible to plead with someone using only a touch, an embrace. It is quite possible to explain away tears with false excuses and leave the real problems lying on the wayside, never to be sought, never to be dealt with...

Sometimes all you want is for another to ask "What's wrong?" and then discard your bullshit excuse. Sometimes all you want is for them to call you out, strip you down, and expose you to yourself.

Because the excuses we make often fool us far more than they fool anyone else. We need saved from our excuses more than the people we make them for do. But though they notice, they choose to remain as vaults. They choose silence over truth. They would rather be lied to, because it's more convenient, more proper, more appropriate. The lightness of lies will always be preferred to the potential darkness of truths.

But why?

Sunday, July 10, 2005

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A friend once told me that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. What do you think? Is it?

I think we all try on different masks, different names. We all step into different roles at some time or another. Or if we don't, we at least desire to.

How well does anyone really know you? How much do you let people in, truly in? How much of what you claim is true is in fact embellished? How much is a product of your imagination? How much of your life did you hijack from someone else's, consciously or subconsciously?

Do we really even know ourselves? Are we who we are despite ourselves, maybe because of our genetic makeup or our environment/upbringing? How much can we really change? At all?

And are we being lazy if we say that we can't? What is truth and what is merely an excuse?

Do people ever see us the way we see ourselves?

So many questions. Infinite answers. Some true, some lies. And only one lifetime to try to find them all...

But we never reach all, because infinite has no end.