caution

I long to be shocked, but it's becoming increasingly difficult. More and more ideas and images are becoming normal, acceptable. This is not a bad thing. But still, I crave the discomfort.


(This is me reaching my quota.)

To pass your own despair on to other people...

"I don't think a despairing man can communicate his despair
because he is offering his despair as an emotional spectacle."

A sloppy quote whose orator is immaterial. I make myself a spectacle and that is why I chose not to speak. I no longer want this. Experiment for next month: say everything with confidence, regardless of whether you believe it or not. I pretend in the wrong direction. Delude myself until I believe it.

I am tired of mocking my own interests as my only means of sharing them. The insecurities of others are insignificant for I am only exploiting my own.

I am ready to speak once again, on probation though.

I am no longer allowing myself to speak.
I shall only be permitted to read.

...until further notice.


...and for good reason!

can't sleep

I am at a loss for words both in conversation and in text. I have been in an inexpressible huff since Sunday and only now (at 7am on a Saturday) I am beginning to feel myself coming out of it. ... I've changed my mind and I'm not going to detail how I got there.

I'm so lazy! My film and book queues are growing faster than I can keep up, constantly discovering things I want to learn about but never finding the time to thoroughly explore them. This in itself isn't unexpected (probably typical) but rather the rate at which I'm working through them is what I find so dismal. I keep getting sidetracked. What exactly do I do all day? I spent most of this week fussing about work, without resolution, and stuck in malls trying to shop for gifts. (So much for my goal of trying to avoid malls for a year. (Not just an attempt to reduce my consumerism but my irritability as well.)) In the interest of making more time, I've been trying to ween myself back into the habit of only sleeping six hours a night but this week I spent the first two nights only sleeping four hours each and then the next two sleeping nine. Granted that works out to an average of six hours, but I spent the last two days in a useless, zombie-like state. If I don't regiment my life into schedules and lists I wallow torpidly, but then I also have been trying not to live so methodically, allowing more to chances and whims. Ugh. The passion is there but the focus is vacillating. I've become completely high-strung and spasmodic.

Well, I obviously had nothing to say this morning but to rant in snippets. Perhaps now I can concentrate and do something more productive.

thhh

cut slice shear drip

the problem with peas

I have always enjoyed tormenting my friends with my vulgarity and my most recent victim has been my one friend whom I’ve been keeping updated on my problems with digesting peas. I tend to eat it in such haste that I don’t bother chewing and hence the peas come out whole on the other end. My friend isn’t easily grossed out, or moved to any emotions for that matter, so it brought me great joy to see how much my story disgusted him.

I kept pushing him to experiment at home to see if this was a common problem but he’s an incredibly picky eater and won’t eat peas, let alone vegetables. So I invited him over a couple times to view the problem in person since he didn’t sound like he believed me, but he declined. I then offered to photograph it. Please keep in mind that this is all in jest and that I’m not really this obsessed with my excrement.

So I decided to create a mock photograph of the incident by dumping a bunch of peas and Tootsie Rolls in the toilet and posting it on his myspace page. The next time I was at the store I looked to buy the Tootsie Rolls but they were sold in such large quantity bags that it hardly seemed worth it: I needed only a few for the photograph and I’d never eat the rest. Plus I was worried that they would clog my toilet if I tried to flush them and I didn’t know if fishing them out by hand, or even net, would be worth it. So I decided to just use one large candy bar instead, thinking that wouldn’t be as awful to extract.

I put the idea off for another week or so until I was at the store with my boyfriend. We stood in front of the checkout line, staring at the numerous types of candy bars and trying to decide which one looked the most like feces. Not only for extraction but for ascetic reasons as well, I thought it would be best to try and select one that would float. Since I not only don’t like chocolate but candy in general, I felt like I lacked the necessary qualifications to decide which one. We finally agreed that a Milky Way would look best in terms of shape, size, and color, but we both thought that the Twix bars might have a better chance of floating due to their wafer insides. I purchased both and went home to set-up.

Luckily during the car ride home I realized that I didn’t have to drop them in the toilet to see if they would float, but that dropping them in any body of water would suffice as a test. (Yes, I’m that slow witted.) So when I got home I did my own rendition of Letterman’s Will It Float, filling a Tupperware container with water and dropping the Milky Way bar in. It sank like concrete. Next I tried one of the Twix bars. It floated momentarily but was inclined to flip upside-down and then sink slowly. If I could keep it topside-up somehow, it might stay afloat but that hardly seemed worthwhile. I grew a little disheartened but then realized that I had some invisible thread I had used previously to hang things.

I ran to the bathroom, grabbed it along with a pair of scissors, and began to tie one end into an adjustable noose. I then tightened the noose around the candy bar, which seemed to hold pretty tight, but the bar was beginning to melt so I threw it in the freezer while I made a couple more nooses to hold it more securely. I also grabbed a rock-climbing carabiner I had and tied the other end of the string to that so I could just hold the carabiner hook, having the candy bar hang from it. I tied three noosed strings to the hook and used one of my protein bars to test it, giving the Milky Way more time in the freezer. It worked wonders: I should have been a civil engineer!

Next I took out some peas from the freezer and dropped them in the water. They floated momentarily but began to sink as they defrosted. I tried microwaving some and then dropping them in, but those sank even faster. I would just have to use frozen ones and work quickly. I loosened my protein bar from the strings, pulled the Milky Way out of the freezer, tightened the nooses around it, and viola, my very own excrement marionette! I had to call over my boyfriend to hold the candy bar in the toilet while I dumped the peas in and took pictures. He seemed less than eager but he participated. Sure enough the peas all sunk to the bottom but I made do. I also had to avoid using the flash, because the strings holding the Milky Way afloat showed. When I was done I just took hold of the carabiner, swung the candy bar over the garbage can and cut the strings.

I posted the best picture on my friend’s myspace page the next day, knowing that I’d see him that evening. He assumed I found the picture online and when I told him I made it, he still seemed unmoved. Actually his first reaction was to ask if I put in my hand in the toilet to pull out the fake feces, but beyond the description of the contraption I made, he seemed less than impressed by my overall effort. Out of spite, I’m debating on creating monthly installments, perfecting the faux-poo photography genre since I’ve already got a trial run under my belt. Muahahah, I already have numerous corrective action plans in mind!

hush

Bits of paper smeared with microscopic penciled text - Everywhere - Never to be read - Never to be expanded - Such sterile release might as well be left as passing thoughts.

My efforts are still lethargic.

a shy, impromptu dirge

myconsciencelacksauthorityevenovermyownactionsmystomachknotted
inguiltishallnoteattodaythoughidonotgiveupidonotknowwhattocallthis
statethatiseemtohavepermanentlyaffixedmyselftoremaininiremaininli
mbounabletoletgoofeventhemostobviousunwantedhelooksatmeforans
werswhenihavenonetogivemyselficannotmakehimhappyihaveremained
inlifeforguiltandihavepinnedmyselfdownfurtherfortakinghimundermyfra
yedwingssothatihaveensuredhisdestructionbutwhoshallgofirsthowwilli
managetwowhenonestillseemssoinconceivableisthismotivationorinevit
ableruinwhereisselfishnessappropriatewherearemyweaknessnolongerw
eightsonmycapabilitieshowlongcaniremainhereifearitcouldbeforeverwh
eredidilosethecouragewasthisabirthdefectorsomethingtakenfrommeiny
outhihavenomemoryoftrustingmyselfihavealwaysreliedonsomeoneandt
heneglectohtheneglectnopersonwasatfaultthesearesocialskillswhichon
eshouldbenaturalwhydoilackthesemostbasehumantraitsandihidemylac
kingsowellthatnotevenmyclosestfriendscanseehowdifficulteverydayisf
ormesoifallasleepwithknotsandwakeupmoaningandcryingandstaringat
thewalllostinthoughtunabletocommunicateborderlineautisticifrightena
waythoseiwantnearestihavelesstosaytothemthananyoneelsebecauset
heycanseethathiddenfeaturethatmysterybutirestrainmyselfinwardiami
mprisonedwithinthiscarcassmymindisnosanctuaryittormentsitselfsinis
terlyicannotescapeittearsaboutmyinsidesthisbottledselfthisfearofinte
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emstheonlywaythatsatisfiesanditdoesnotsatisfybutephemerallyohish
allnotsurvivebutthisfixationwithmyowndemisedoesitnotmasksomethi
ngevenmoresuspiciousisitnotallbackwardsallreallyadeeprootedfearofli
feitselfhiddenevenfrommyownthoughtsilietomyselfandonlythroughtex
tcanirevealthesesecretsthatiamtoodimwittedtodiscoverwithoutbutare
theynotjustmoreselfdeceptionsaretheynotjustmoreexcuseswherecanif
indtheanswersthesolutionsthewilltolivethatiseeinsomanyothersthejoy
theconfidencethesatisfactionthedrivethehappinessthatseemssostrang
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oughifeelmorevacantthanweirdmoreabuffoonthanaseereverystepitake
toilluminatemypathonlyconfusesmydirectionfurtherwhatnowwhatnoww
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tunderqualifiedunderdevelopedexposedtoanenvironmentthaticannoth
opetosustainmyselfwithinsomelodramaticthisselfobsessioniamrambli
ngnowrepeatingmyselftypingbutnotsayinganythingnoonemustknowth
eymisinterpretandicannotaffordtheiropinionsiwillstayhiddenhereinlett
ersnotdecipheredtoocomplextobeworththeeffortiwillhidemyselflikethi
salthoughiamnotcompleximustonlyleadthemtobelievesosothaticanfin
allyhavepeacefinallyhavemyowntimeoutsideoftheirtimecaninotmainta
inmyownexistencestillwithintheirstogounnoticedisthatunreasonableto
expectofmyselforisthataskingtoolittleofmyselficannottellthedifference
anymoreicannotdescribemysurroundingsthislifeseemssounfamiliaryeti
havebeengestatinginitforfouryearsnowwhencaniexpectbirthanewwhati
ncitingincidentmustiinflictuponmyselfineedtothrowallofthisawayitismy
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nyprogresslosteveninalowerplacethatiamnotjusttohavemadeeffortrega
rdlessofoutcomewouldbeenoughtomakeitworthwhiletoquitmyjobtoleav
emyfriendstoleavemyfamilytoleavemyhometoleavemykeepsakescouldi
leavehimpretendicouldtoleavehimtoselleverythingarethesedaydreamsa
rethesewastefulthoughtsnoteventhoughtsbutcomplacenciestowardsmy
continueddegradationwhataretherightthoughtstheonesthatwillleadmet
osomethingascertainablethedirectthoughtsthatonesthatscreamactionia
mmakingafoolofmyselfthesearedaydreamsfoodtosustainthegivenwayth
eguiltistoomuchpeoplearecountingonmeandiamunabletoinflicttheneces
sarydestructionicanonlydestroymyselficanlivewiththatihavelivedliketha
tiusedtodreamasachildaboutfakingmyowndeathletthemmournherinever
dreamtofafamilychildrenhousecardogidreamtofsolitudeandnotjustinado
lescencebutasatoddleraswellasalwaysistilldoishouldishouldfocusmyatt
entiononselfsufficiencyithinkiammorecapableoflovinglonelinessthanano
therpersonwhynotwhycaninotconnectiwillnotletitmatteranymorearedire
ctionofenergiesinowknowwhatiwantwhatiwantistoseekoutandextinguish
allthatwasforceduponandfindthatpersonthatiwasininnocenceandallowh
erallthecontrolthatshedesiresnomatterherwillnomattermydestructioniw
illgivemyselftohermytasknowmustbetofindher..................................

out continued

What is this sensation overtaking me? No aspect of my life is safe from its clutches. What once was vaguely looming is now omnipresent.


As if suddenly I feel like I can see through walls, but instead of being consumed by a sense of absolute power, I am utterly and absolutely petrified.


I no longer know how to live.

out

I met my boyfriend for lunch today. Our relationship hasn't been doing the greatest lately and as usual this is in direct relation to my own mood swings. When I am happy, we are perfect for each other; I become completely carefree and puerile in his presence and he consumes my aura, finding in it the pleasure he otherwise finds life devoid of. These moments are precious, but all too rare. More commonly, he endures my fits of mournful detachment. He comforts me, stays with me, listens to me, but he doesn't understand. Whenever I break down and lose my composure he asks me what's wrong, what can he do to help me, looking for some specific trigger and an even more specific solution. The rare times I do muster up discernible responses, they seem cryptic and vague to him. I can feel a silent panic within him as he realizes he'll never be able to help me. He knows I know this, but I make no offer of solace.

So we sat across the table from on another as usual: he with nothing to say and me in charge of carrying the conversation. But I was not there. My eyes were fixated on the row of tiles encircling the bottom of a nearby support beam. What color were they supposed to be? Why would only one row be carried from the flooring to the bottom of the beam? Why not more or none at all?

At work this morning I was stricken with the urge to start bawling and shivering, yet nothing was happening, no one was moving, everyone was just going about their routines. Something just felt so unnatural about it all. The smiles seemed lost. The laughter sounded like chocking. The fabric covering the cubicle walls seemed like it was merely there to mask the underlying prison-like bars. But it's not just at work anymore; I see it everywhere now. Everything seems so artificial and what scares me the most is the disguised desperation in their faces, an urgency for something I can't discern. If I close my eyes, stand still and breathe in deeply, out slowly, and open my eyes, if I remove all the knick-knacks, all the furniture, all the walls, I can see nothing but shadowy figures moving at alarming speeds but in the most chaotic patterns. Where are they going? Quiescent, I stand surrounded and want nothing more than to remove myself completely from this spectacle. But how does one excuse herself from such a stage? I'm terrified to take even the smallest of steps as if I could be trampled to death by their disorder.

After I broke my concentration on the beam tiles, I finally looked over towards him and began relaying these thoughts aloud. I don't know why. I keep thinking that if I say them enough times, he'll begin to understand, but every time the tacit response is the same: pity. However it's not a condescending pity, but rather almost a self-pity, as if he knows that this will always keep us separated from one another. The feeling is mutual and always unspoken.

chin up, cheer up, ...another kind. [end quote]

I haven't done a single productive thing all week. I seem to have made a hobby of wavering between blankly staring at my laptop screen, not being able to think of a single thing to look up or anything useful to write, and just laying in bed for hours listening to the same CD, if not the same song, over and over and over. What happened? I was doing so well. Sunday I got up early and went for a walk, finally roaming around the cemetery that's not too far from my apartment, which I had been eying a number of times via car. I've developed an affinity for morning walks, playing some pensive music and collecting my thoughts before I start the day. (At heart I'm an eighty year old woman.) I spent the afternoon like usual at my cafe reading for hours. I get so easily distracted at home that it sadly seems I can only read in public, but even then the setting has to be just right. I don't know how I'll read if Meshuggah ever closes down, as all the other places I have tried have been a bust. I dunno, I've always enjoyed being surrounded by people yet completely ignoring them. I hardly want to be noticed, nor do I sit there people watching unless I'm really having trouble concentrating. My favorite feeling though is looking up after hours of sitting there absorbed in text and realizing that all the people that were there when I came in have been replaced by new people, almost as if I'd momentarily stepped out of time. It sounds cheesy, but I'm being sincere. Then afterwards I came home, made dinner, watched a film and wrote some. I really think I'd be content if I could live every day that way. It's even economical! But now? Nothing.

I cannot manage to maintain focused behavior for a significant length of time. Sometimes wallowing is just too alluring, and it envelops me so cunningly that I don't even notice until the evening is gone. I've been really physically unmotivated for weeks now, sleeping too much, eating poorly, moping around, and depending on large quantities of tea to keep from sleeping non-stop, but even the powers of tea are waning. Perhaps this weekend I can turn myself around. I am already forced to leave my abode and be social two days in a row.

I need out.

wallow

Seasick, Yet Still Docked

looping endlessly.

Madame Bovary

I meant to write about each book upon completion but I neglected writing about Humanity, and I'm delayed in writing about Madame Bovary. At least this time I took unusually diligent notes (though still a scattered mess) because I wanted to ensure that I'd remember enough of my thoughts for a later discussion of the novel with a friend.

A side note: I just noticed that my sister wrote "LOSER!!" at the bottom of one of my Bovary pages in my notebook. Apparently boredom lead her to take advantage of one of the instances when I left it unattended during our stay in Boston. Such encouragement! I'll get her back.

Anyway, I was surprised by not only how much I enjoyed the novel overall but how much I related to Emma (as neither of which I was anticipating). One note I jotted down, which simplifies just one aspect, was "how uselessly I daydream just the same to make the present circumstances bearable and although I am not limited as obviously by the social decorum of her day, I remain just as naive and wishful." I'm really interested to hear what my friend found so deplorable about Flaubert's characterization of Emma. (We haven't discussed it yet as she is still reading it, though she's read it before.) I didn't find it the least bit demeaning or ill-conceived, but rather honest and even considerate.

My friend has tried to get me to read the works of Jane Austen, which she feels she connects with so deeply, but I feel that I wouldn't connect with them beyond a shallow, underdeveloped sense of feminine romanticism. This assumption however is based off the numerous Austen film adaptations I've sat through since I've never actually read anything of hers, so I am perhaps speaking in ignorance. I'm not saying I would dislike them as stories per say but that I wouldn't find her characters' plights portrayed with the same realism. Perhaps that's more my affinity for Flaubert's cynicism talking than for his interpretation of the feminine psyche. Then again, I can't relate to most all women in real life, so why shouldn't I relate more to a male's rendering! *sigh* I know the novel was criticized for obscenity and although I don't have any depth on the case, what struck me as "obscene" for its time was not the sexuality in itself but rather Flaubert's detailing of Emma's frustrations, giving her outbursts justification instead of demonizing them.

Some of my more abstract blog entries while reading Madame Bovary dwelled on one reoccurring thought: the vile yet enduring female fantasy that prince charming will come and save everything, a fantasy I succumb to in certain aspects of my own. Emma found her life dull and clung to naive beliefs to continue living her given life: she thought she would love Charles upon marrying him, that her wedding day would be her happiest day, but such was not the case. To escape the dullness of her husband she clung to the fantasy that wealth guaranteed happiness and although this fantasy was never stomped out by actualization like her marriage, it drove her into debt and ruin. She thought an affair would bring passion and love but she was deceived by a pro and hence corrupted irreversibly. And even when there was mutual love in her second affair, it was only ephemeral. Perhaps that was in part because Rodolphe stole an innocence from her that would have been necessary for her love for Leon to endure, or at least for it to last longer than it did, but I can't imagine it lasting either way. Her passions in general seemed insatiable that ruin was practically inevitable.

All these pursuits were to escape the mundaneness of her bourgeois life, a desperate pursuit of which her husband, lovers, and everyone else remained completely oblivious to. Her affairs didn't strike me as inspired by the hedonistic, selfish, gratifications of a nympho but that of a woman trying to liberated herself from a suffocating environment but only further oppressing herself in her attempts to escape. (Sounds too familiar.) Not her husband nor her lovers could save her. When she realized that financial ruin was at hand, exasperated, she ran from one male to the next for help but not a finger was lifted nor an ounce of sympathy granted. Arsenic was her last desperate solution and even her death was ill-fated and arduous. What seemed the most horrific to me was her looking upon Charles in the last hours of her painful death and seeing the deep, impassioned love in his eyes that she was so incapable of ascertaining herself.

running in circles, repetitiously

I always have to multi-task whenever I talk on the phone with my mom because it's the only way to mollify my temper and avoid heated arguments. Tonight I spent the conversation sorting through a box of old, miscellaneous papers trying to find items I could throw away. The box contained anything from magazine clippings, posters, old homework assignments, quotes, and other writings, and I stumbled upon a ranting page of free-verse I had written long ago:

"Is it true, that some people just are not meant to make it? Imbalances, guilt, sympathy, and physical restraints are all in the way. We are given these dreams, uncontrollable and so very frail, and full heartedly believe that a full life is one where these dreams are conquered. We all know these, no matter how many choose to look away, but under what circumstances? Reality, right? That is so indefinable, but really it is not. We just make so many excuses for ourselves, that we lose touch with what we are given, instead of what we desire. It is so much easier. Society and specialization make it so much easier. That is why they were developed so long ago. A horrible, horrible fairy tale. Yes, we have made life easier, but at what expense? It was once about survival, but we are beyond that. It is now about dreams. Dreams that we avoid. Dreams that we try to manipulate but then only leave us feeling spiritually vacant. And I fear that no one cares. I fear that I will grow to no longer care..."

It continues further, but goes off on a tangent. I have no recollection of writing it and there's no way of dating it beyond the roughness of the sides, which imply printing from one of those ancient dot-matrix printers with the perforated, tear-off edges. Of course, every instance of "we" should more appropriately say "I." Some points in it are confusing, others melodramatic, but what struck me as disheartening was that even realizing all that at a younger age, I still took the path that I did.

If there's anything good to say, at least I still care.

complacency, instigator

My quiescence desensitizes. Zombie-like I skate through life half-heartedly waiting to fuck up, waiting to be forced to change, subconsciously calling for it, eagerly. It's not happening. I endure in patience praising vice as virtue. Dreamily I stall hoping to find someone willing to plunge in with me or someone on the other side reaching his arm out towards me. No one is there. No one is coming. Change may not come slowly but it can be forced brutishly.

The difficulty no longer lies in giving all this up. I feel at last ready to do that. The difficulty lies in that there is nothing to replace it with, nothing but the one escape I must not give in to.






(Minimum 15 entries per month (versus previous desire of 20). One a week must be film related.)